She Rises
by giraffelove92
Summary: "He watched as the air around her crackled with her magic, and it was so aggressive, so electrifying, that he wondered how this beautiful creature had ever managed to evade his notice – how he'd so foolishly underestimated her from the start." Darkfic.
1. Chapter 1

**Sooooo…yeah. Hi.**

 **I am so,** _ **so**_ **sorry. I have been…indisposed…for the past year or so, and I have failed you all. But I'm back. At least for now. Updates won't be as unnaturally speedy as they used to be, but I plan on having them out once every 2 weeks, at least.**

 **This is a multichapter Tomione that has been teasing my mind for** _ **evvverrr.**_ **That said, I think it's time for it to become more than a figment of my imagination.**

 **Also, I'm really struggling getting my words out as smoothly as I used to, because I'm so out of practice. So bear with me for a little while. It will get better. Hopefully.**

 **Hold on to your seat. I'm back, bitches. ;)**

 **Summary: "He watched as the air around her crackled with her magic, and it was so aggressive, so electrifying, that he wondered how this beautiful creature ever managed to evade his notice – how he so foolishly underestimated her from the start."**

 **For the sake of this story, a few things have changed. The events of seventh year didn't culminate in the Battle of Hogwarts – in my story, the war keeps going, and there is a Second Battle of Hogwarts that happens in 2002, after a few hard years of war and loss on either side. Hermione is a bit OOC – she is still the champion of love and courage and all that rot, at least at first, but she has been through hell, and it has changed her. She is angry. She is sad. She does, on occasion, abandon logic for the sake of vengeance. She is not the quick-to-tears sensitive Hermione we see in the books. She is tougher. She is harder. She can be a bit manipulative, at times, in order to protect herself and the people she cares about. She** _ **owns**_ **her power and, as someone slightly older with far more life experience, she struggles to fit in with the other students. Her instincts are nearly unparalleled (Draco's, too) by years of fighting. She is still a competitive know-it-all, just less annoying about how she goes about it. She is still quick to jump to someone's defense, and still has that selfless, self-sacrificing streak that has not been at all diminished over the years. She is just jaded, and the trauma that she has experienced is so immeasurable that she suffers daily, entrenched in fear, loneliness, anger, and immense sadness. She's strong, but not always stable or consistent. She's also a Grade A badass, and has killed her fair share of evil Death Eater types; she doesn't have the moral qualms that you might expect out of Hermione Granger. And, one more thing – Hermione does have a dark side, one that grows more prevalent throughout this story. By the time this fic is over (and no, I don't know exactly when or where that will be) she will give the young Lord Voldemort a run for his money.**

 **Draco is kinder. He has come to care about Hermione – a lot. The depth of their feelings for each other will be explored more throughout the story, though this is not, primarily, a Dramione story. Sorry, guys. I have plenty of those up my sleeve, but this one is the one clawing most impatiently at the walls of my brain. Things aren't always strictly platonic between the two – there is some tension there, believe me. And Draco is also a Grade A badass.**

 **Tom will be…Tom. I haven't quite cracked his character yet. He's a work in progress. He is a Grade A BAMF, and a sociopathic megalomaniac that is reluctantly interested in the two time travelers, but especially Hermione because, well, she's a pretty girl, and while he likes to think he's above such things as silly teenage hormones, he's not immune. Sorry, Tom. You haven't officially crossed over into monster territory yet; you're 50% there, though, so keep trying! Or don't.**

 **WARNINGS: general adult themes, language, violence, horror and gore and some creepy shit, and fairly explicit sexual content.**

 **Anyway, on with the story. Don't expect too much. I have no airs that I am some great writer. I like to think that I don't suck at it, but believe me – I am under no illusions that I am hot shit. Especially when it comes to stringing along a multi-chapter plot (which I'm not very good at, to be truthful). That said, please review honestly, because I am always looking to learn more.**

* * *

oooo

Only the dead have seen the end of war. _-George Santayana_

 _Wednesday, September 18th, 2002_

 _10:32 A.M._

 _The Forbidden Forest_

How _terribly ironic._

Hermione chuckled as she ran, earning an exasperated look from the unlikely compatriot running to her left.

"What the hell are you giggling about over there?"

She grinned, panting. She hurled a curse over her shoulder, feeling a thrill of satisfaction when she heard a man shout and a body hit the ground. "Oh, you know," she responded breathlessly, wiping sweat from her forehead and leaping over a fallen tree with agility that could only be accomplished through years of soldiering. "I was just thinking how funny it is that I used to struggle so much in DADA in school. How I froze up during duels and got nervous during any sort of practical test. It was the only subject in which I scored an E instead of an O on my O.W.L.s."

Draco Malfoy – improbable ally, confidant, and friend – scoffed, turning nimbly to cast a quick _Incendio_ towards the dry brush on the forest floor in an impressive display of magic, a wall of fire forming to stretch horizontally at their backs. England was in the middle of a nasty September draught, and the arid land needed little encouragement. Flames spread quickly behind them, halting their would-be captors in their tracks. They both smiled victoriously when they heard their pursuers swear viciously.

"I didn't know that," he responded, still able to manage a cool, cultured drawl even as he booked it alongside her over the thick roots of the Forbidden Forest. He managed to look good doing it, too, the stupid git, despite blood pouring down from his temple, staining his angelic halo of hair a dirty rust color. He laughed without humor, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. "Of course, the fact that 'struggling' for you is getting an E instead of an O on something is depressing. Nobody likes a show-off. But it looks like you got over that block pretty well, didn't you Granger?"

She hummed in agreement. "It's ironic that the one thing that I was once even remotely bad at became something that is now second nature to me."

A cloaked figure appeared through the trees to Draco's left. The metallic glint of a mask caught her eye. Raising her wand, she didn't hesitate. _"Cerebrumiax,"_ she muttered, slashing her wand down and to the right. A bright purple jet of smoky light shot from the end of her wand.

A tortured scream was torn from the figure's lips and she saw him crumple to the ground, holding his head. She kept running. She felt nothing but grim satisfaction.

Draco shuddered. "Ugh, I hate that curse, Granger," he said, nearly tripping over a protruding root the size of a small car. He vaulted himself over it and she did the same, landing hard on the dirt floor of the forest. "Don't get me wrong, the spells you invent are always kind of awesome, but at the same time disgusting to watch."

"Well, Malfoy," she replied, "Nothing gives me greater pleasure than watching a Death Eater's brain leaking from his ears."

They both came to an abrupt stop as they reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, scanning their surroundings before slinking around Hagrid's Hut and leaning against the far wall, stopping to catch their breath.

"You scare me sometimes, Granger," Draco admitted, bending at the waist and clutching the stitch in his side. He and Hermione were both at the peak of physical fitness, but no amount of training could prepare someone for the utter nightmare of battle and fleeing through miles of forest. "You sound bloody evil sometimes, you know."

She leaned her head back against the wall, breathing heavily. "Revenge does horrible things to good people, Draco. You know this better than most. It's warped me. I'm not the girl I was in school."

He sighed in response. "I know that, Granger. I can't claim to be unchanged by war, either."

She turned and looked at him, her eyes bright with adrenaline. "For the record, Malfoy – I like this version of you better than the last."

He grinned and chuckled. "Me too, Hermione. Me too." An explosion sounded from the direction of the castle. He scooted out from behind Hagrid's hut, watching, and then turned back to train his pearly silver gaze on her. "You ready?"

She nodded in affirmation, gripping her wand in hand. She looked down at it, taking in the slight curve of the foot-long walnut wand with a dragon heartstring core. It had taken Hermione over half a year of ownership to master Bellatrix Lestrange's wand. In the end, she didn't think it was the wand that adapted to her as much as _she_ adapted to the _wand._ The thought used to frighten her – the prospect of sharing any traits with the more-than-half-mad Death Eater terrified her. But as time went on, and the casualties of what seemed a never-ending war began to pile up, she learned to accept the similarities between her and the woman who haunted her nightmares. And she learned to respect herself in spite of them. Because at the end of the day, despite the growing darkness in Hermione, she knew she would _never_ turn into a woman like Bellatrix. She still fought for what was good, and right, and she still loved her friends and was unwaveringly loyal to them. She'd found it within herself to forgive people like Draco and his mother, people like Parkinson and Goyle, whose Slytherin self-preservation instincts had ironically saved more than a few Order members. She was still _Hermione Granger,_ Muggleborn know-it-all extraordinaire, champion of underdogs and all things pure.

She was just a bit more ruthless in how she went about it, and tarnishing her own soul in the process was just an unfortunate side effect.

"What does it look like out there?" she asked her partner, looking at his broad back as he again twisted around to look at the castle. "Any obstacles?"

"A couple," he murmured. "One acromantula, two dementors, two Death Eaters that still have their masks on, and what looks like Rosier dueling Luna."

"Oh goody," she murmured sarcastically. "All of my favorites; I can't decide which I want to dismember first!" She leaned past him as he snorted in amusement, getting a glimpse of the action over his shoulder. "Look," she said in wonder, pointing. "Luna's kicking Rosier's _arse."_

And she was. They watched as, with a dreamy smile on her face, Luna danced out of the way of Rosier's killing curses and sent a barrage of various spells back at him, ranging from the tickling jinx, _Rictusempra,_ to one of Hermione's very own creations: _Sanguinulcus,_ a nasty hex that brought the blood to a boil within half a minute and would cause death not long after. Luna was unfailingly peculiar, even whilst fighting for her life. She made it look like she was doing nothing more than hosting a tea party. With finality, she slashed her wand, muttering under her breath, and a brilliant green jet of light shot from the tip of her wand to hit the hulking blonde square in the chest. He fell to the ground.

Dead.

Hermione and Draco lunged forward at the same time as their perpetually preoccupied friend twirled away, unaware of the dementors looming behind her. They cast at the same time, patronuses bursting from their wands in a brilliant display of powerful positive magic. A snarling lioness raced a roaring Antipodean Opaleye across the field, each slamming into a different dementor, driving them into the trees. Their job finished, they dissipated into the approaching dusk sky.

"A dragon, Malfoy? _Really?"_ She laughed, delighted, realizing that she had never before seen Draco's patronus. "How fitting."

Luna smiled dreamily, killing a masked figure with a quick _Avada Kedavra._ "He _is_ named after the dragon constellation, Hermione," she commented, flouncing over to them, her long blonde hair streaming behind her. Blood soaked through her khaki shorts and trickled down her pale leg from a wide but shallow gash on her upper thigh. She seemed not to notice.

"Don't make fun, Granger," Draco warned. "I could easily say something along the lines of 'A lioness, Granger? Really? How _fitting_ for the bloody _Gryffindor Princess._ How _appropriate,'_ and you would sneer at me. Besides, what ever did happen to your otter?"

As Draco cast a nonverbal _Sectumsempra_ at the acromantula, severing all of its limbs and causing it to squeal in pain, she chuckled and used a robust _Flipendo_ to knock the remaining Death Eater into the very rock she had once punched Draco against. She heard his bones crack audibly, and when he slid down she spied the bloodstain smeared on the stone from where his head had cracked open. He crumpled to the ground, still.

"My otter was replaced," she said darkly, walking briskly up the stairs towards the castle. "The lion took its place sometime after September nineteenth, 1999, I imagine. My twentieth birthday. It took me two months to be able to conjure a Patronus after I got home, remember? And when I finally could again, the otter was nowhere to be seen."

Draco and Luna were both silent after that, dogging her heels up the steps towards the castle. Before they reached the top, Draco pulled on her shoulder, stopping her. He turned her towards him.

Her eyes were dry, but full of anguish. "Hermione," he said, using her given name. "Look at me." She stared at his no longer pointy chin, turned square with age and stress and muscle. "Look in my eyes."

The female third of the Golden Trio finally complied, burnt sienna hesitantly seeking out granite. Draco ran his hands from her arms to her shoulders to her neck and then up to cup her cheeks. "You can't think about that right now, Granger. You can't afford to be distracted by your grief. There's a time for all that, and it isn't now." He barely flinched as Luna blasted a lurking acromantula across the grass. "Potter needs you at a hundred percent. The Order needs you at a hundred percent. Luna and I are counting on you to watch our backs. Do you understand?"

She let out a shaky breath and nodded, closing her eyes. When she opened them, the ochre orbs were full of resolve. "I'm ready. It's out of my mind."

Draco squeezed her shoulders. "Good. Now let's go. We've got work to do."

* * *

oooo

When they reached the castle, all was chaos.

Somehow Hermione had gotten separated from her two compatriots, and ended up fighting back to back with Dean Thomas. She screamed in outrage when her dark-skinned friend put an arm around her and swung her around, sacrificing himself for her by taking a green flash of light to the back and falling at her feet. Furious, she sent a nasty, powerful _Expulso_ back and watched the black-robed body explode into pieces, sending bloody chunks of flesh flying across the courtyard. She felt the hot thickness of it splatter her face and neck and arms and legs, felt the heaviness of it in her pulled-back mass of curls.

A familiar shout drew her attention and she turned to see Draco get hit with a smoky spell that had him dropping to the ground. Bellatrix cackled. Enraged, Hermione charged towards her, dodging one of Greyback's werewolves and hurling herself onto the dark witch's back, grabbing her by the hair and jabbing Bellatrix's very own stolen walnut wand into her throat, focusing her anger and rapidly firing off the spell for the slowest and most painful death she could think of.

" _PROBILLIUM!"_ she roared, a ripple of hate-fuelled red-orange energy seeping from her wand into the neck of the woman in front of her. Shrieking in agony, Bellatrix flung the younger witch from her form. Hermione landed hard on her side. She grunted in pain as her wrist crumpled, pinned beneath her weight and pressed to the cold stone of the courtyard.

"A nice little spell I picked up in Haiti, Bellatrix," Hermione shouted from the ground. Crawling over to where Draco lay with his eyes closed, she watched with sick fulfillment as Bellatrix Lestrange met her end.

The eldest Black daughter screeched in anguish, clawing at her neck as the skin there began to disintegrate. The infection spread, eating away at the epidermis on her chest and face until she was writhing on the floor. Hermione saw her hands begin to turn red and smoke. It was as if acid had been injected into the woman's skin, eating away at her flesh. It continued to work until nearly nothing was left. Bellatrix stopped screaming. Many people in the courtyard, on both sides of the war, had stopped to watch in horror as her form crumpled in on itself. She convulsed, skin rotting off to expose raw, bloody muscle. Her eyes, no longer protected by eyelids, collapsed in their sockets. The flesh and muscle around her jaw decayed rapidly, exposing the bone beneath. Her hands melted, tendons stretching and blood pooling. She thrashed once, and then went still.

It had taken less than two minutes, but all that was left of Bellatrix Lestrange was a sticky pile of blood, bones and hair.

Hermione's sense of contentment didn't last long. As Rodolphus Lestrange cried out in fury and charged her, Harry appeared through the smoke, firing off a stunner that hit the older man in the back. Then, with a flourish, he sent the Killing Curse towards the werewolf who, in human form, succumbed within seconds.

"Harry!" she cried. A great wave of relief rolled right through her at finally seeing her oldest and closest friend, even if he was covered in blood and dirt. He still looked a sight better than she did, anyway. She cast a shield behind him just in time to deflect an orange jet of light racing towards his back.

"Thanks, Hermione," he breathed, wrapping an arm around her neck in a side hug. She tugged him over to where Draco lay, crouching behind a column and putting their backs to the wall. "What happened to him?" he asked of her, laying his fingers against Draco's neck. His pulse was faint, but present.

"Bellatrix," Hermione said darkly. She looked over to where the evil woman's remains lay, still steaming. Harry's grass green gaze followed. "But I took care of it."

Harry shuddered and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Just be careful," he said, his eyes kind but concerned. "That spell is _dark,_ 'Mione. You heard what the shaman in Port-Au-Prince said about it – that it does worse things to the soul than the Killing Curse."

"I know, Harry," she replied, feeling properly chastised – and ashamed. "I just…I wanted her to suffer, Harry. I wanted her to really _suffer."_

The Boy-Who-Lived-Twice exhaled heavily. "I know. Believe me, I know." He used the sleeve of his shirt (how he wore long sleeves in this heat, she didn't understand) to dab at a long cut on the side of her face before aiming his wand at a deep cut on her thigh and muttering a healing charm, albeit a weak one. It staunched the bleeding some, but didn't close the wound.

He grimaced. "Sorry, Hermione, you know I'm rubbish at healing spells."

She gave him a gentle smile. "That's alright, Harry. I've suffered through your botched attempts many times, and I always live," she said cheekily, elbowing him in the side. No matter how dark and dismal things were in their lives these days, the two always strived to have something to laugh about, even in the face of great danger. It was a sweet reward when her solemn friend grinned, his perpetually sad green eyes flashing with brief mirth.

"Have you seen Moldy Voldy yet?" she asked, her tone light and teasing despite the seriousness of the question.

Harry smirked, but his eyes were worried. "Only once, from across a distance." His voice got quiet. "He's so powerful, 'Mione. I just…I don't know if I can do this."

"We've talked about this before, Harry," she said, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. She stood, pulling him up beside her. "Don't go doubting yourself now, while we're so close."

He smiled tightly. "What's a hero without a little mental breakdown right at the end, Hermione?" he asked cynically. "Self-doubt and identity crises are what I'm all about. Hero, remember?" He gestured to himself, puffing up his chest comically.

Hermione, despite her exhaustion and wounds (her wrist was so swollen it was unrecognizable, and the burn on her shoulder blade and back felt like her skin had been ripped off, doused in acid, set on fire, trampled, set on fire again, and then put back in place), giggled uncharacteristically at the Chosen One's theatrical stance. "Oh, come off it, you idiot."

Draco groaned softly from his spot on the ground, and suddenly Hermione realized where she was, and what was happening, and that one of her closest friends was suffering from an unknown curse that could very well kill him where he lie. She sobered quickly, taking stock of her surroundings, and that was when she noticed it.

Complete silence.

Everything was frozen in space and time – not even the wind blew. Smoke had ceased to rise, and fires had ceased to spread, and people and creatures everywhere had ceased to move. Rubble that had been blasted into the air hung there, suspended, as if balancing precariously on some unseen surface. It was as if the world had taken a breath and had forgotten to exhale.

Confused, Hermione lifted her hand from Harry's still shoulder, eyes scanning as she crouched next to Draco's silent form. And then she heard it: something beautiful, something strangely and distantly familiar, as if from a dream – something that she had not heard in a long time and had never expected to hear again.

Phoenix song.

Looking to the sky, she saw the bright speck of color that was Fawkes, gliding through the frozen smoke towards her and her two companions. She gaped in disbelief.

"But…how?" she mused to herself, confused.

It was widely known that phoenixes were nearly impossible to domesticate (there had been only two known to history), and when they were tamed as pets they were unfailingly loyal. When its master died, a phoenix would fly away into the wild, mourning, and was never seen again. The fact that Fawkes had come back to Hogwarts, his home while he had belonged to Albus Dumbledore, was highly unlikely. That he were to come back now, at this time, during this final battle, to the place where Dumbledore not only lived but also had _died,_ was…almost bordering on impossible.

She was dreaming. She must have been. But as time continued to stand still, the speck got clearer and clearer, closer and closer – and was headed right for her.

"Fawkes!" she called out, confused but still happy to be able to see him again. She waved in greeting, and continued to crouch next to Draco's body, hoping that Fawkes could somehow heal him. What fortune! What a strange stroke of luck! Hope stirred within her chest.

As he got closer, however, wings of vibrant orange and vermillion plumage pumping furiously, Hermione grew cautious. His legs were…on fire. The flames travelled upwards on his body until all but his intelligent black eyes were covered with them, and Hermione could feel the intense heat of the fire from even fifty feet away. Fawkes picked up speed, and Hermione could do nothing but lodge herself more firmly against the wall, trying simultaneously to shield Draco's body with her own. She tried pushing Harry aside, but his form would not budge.

"What are you doing!?" she screamed at the approaching bird. She shielded her eyes from the heat. "Fawkes!"

When he careened into her, she was knocked violently against the wall, shrieking when Fawkes' fiery body continued to push until he had somehow _melded_ to her. She screamed in pain when she felt the impact in her chest. It felt like her heart was burning, about to explode beneath her sternum. She looked down to find that her shirt was seemingly unaffected, but her chest glowed with a strange orange light, as if she had swallowed a jack-o-lantern only…brighter. Hotter. So, _so_ hot. Scorching. She groaned, laying her head down on her blond friend's stomach, almost fainting from the pain. And then pleasure melded with the pain, so intense she thought she might cry. It was not a sensual pleasure; it was simply blissful, like a perfect day out in the sunshine, or sitting with a mug of hot cocoa in the winter, or laughing with friends, or cuddling with a lover. It was taking a hot shower after a day stuck outside in the chilly, polluted air.

Pleasure and pain ripped through her body in tandem, as Fawkes' body seemed to fuse to her own. She could feel him, his distinctive magic, throughout her whole body. Blinding light flashed behind her eyelids.

Then there was an almighty _**CRACK,**_ and she was suddenly squeezed tight and whisked away into darkness, the taste of fire on the back of her tongue.

* * *

oooo

 _Monday, September 18_ _th_ _, 1944_

 _11:12 A.M._

 _Hogwarts_

Dumbledore sat quietly in his office, reading through an essay by one of his younger Ravenclaw students. He rubbed his temples, attempting to stave off the approaching headache that he felt was inevitable. Sighing, he set the parchment down and took off his glasses, resting his eyes for just a moment. Perhaps he would indulge in some tea. A cup of Earl Grey sounded lovely.

Of course, his moment of peace didn't last long, and his plans for a cup of tea were forgotten as his door reverberated with the sharp _rat-a-tat_ of a knock.

"Come in," he said tiredly, attempting to put on a happy façade. He dropped it immediately, however, when one of his oldest friends stepped into the room.

"Galatea," he said, slouching in his chair with relief. "Thank Merlin. I honestly don't believe I could stand to even look at another student for the rest of the day, much less field questions. At least I don't have any afternoon classes today. What brings you to my office?"

Professor Galatea Merrythought, instructor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, stepped into his office, coming to stand behind the chair in front of his desk. She tugged on her long, graying braid and sighed wearily. "I just thought I'd ask if you wanted me to bring you something from the dining hall," she said, her voice sounding just as tired as her face looked. "I'm going to grab some lunch and bring it back to my office, and I figured you might want to do the same."

Albus smiled at his fellow teacher. "That would be lovely, Galatea, thank you," he said. "You know just what I like. I trust you to pick out something tasty on my behalf."

She smiled and the increasingly deepening lines around her eyes crinkled. "Of course. I'll see you in a few minutes."

He sat back in relief, once again taking his spectacles off with the intention of closing his eyes for a few minutes. Once again, he was interrupted.

This time, however, the interruption was far more unusual.

It started with Fawkes soaring in through the open window, warbling a high-pitched, melodious song that was, unfortunately, just as loud as it was beautiful.

Nothing so unusual about that…and then, quite suddenly, it felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. He was suddenly hot, uncomfortably hot, as if he was sitting in an enclosed room with a blazing bonfire. As he started to stand, gasping for breath in the oppressive heat, there was an almighty _CRACK_ and a blinding flash of light. And then the air cleared, and Dumbledore blinked away the spots that were floating in front of his eyes.

When his vision cleared, he gently slid his wand from his robe. He could see two figures clearly from where he stood, moving slowly towards them as if in a dream. A man in dark clothing lay stretched out on his back on the floor, eyes closed. A woman knelt by his side, breathing heavily, wearing bizarre clothing – a sleeveless shirt (which he guessed had been white once upon a time) with a pair of olive-green pants that were cut to end well above the knee.

But what was most interesting about this strange couple was that it was glaringly obvious that they were _covered_ in blood.

The boy's hair, which Albus could see had once been a very fair shade of blonde, was heavily stained with blood at one temple and at the nape of his neck and covered in grey dust. The knee of his trousers, though pitch black in color, shone with the stickiness of blood. The ankle of the same leg was obviously broken, and his breathing was shallow and irregular.

The woman seemed to be in a similar condition, though it was hard to tell. Her shirt, though it still shone a dusty white in some places, was nearly soaked all the way through with blood, turning it a vivid shade of burgundy. What he could see of her skin was shaded in red, splattered and streaked with drops and smears of crimson. He thought perhaps that most of the blood wasn't hers. The bright scarlet liquid poured freely from a nasty looking gash on her left thigh, running down one long, golden leg and soaking through her sock. The opposite leg was unmarred by injury, but her calf had obviously been clawed by some creature at some point, rather recently, he'd guess, because the gouges were long and pink and puckered, still healing.

In her right hand she clutched a long, dark wand in a white-knuckled grip; the entirety of the back of her hand was missing a thick layer of skin, which had obviously been scraped off by a slicing hex and now hung limply from her wrist, exposing the tender red flesh beneath. She cradled her left wrist to her chest, and he could tell by the swelling and the way she held it that it was badly broken. He caught a glimpse of something on the inside of her forearm – an old scar, it looked like – but it was hard to make out with all of the blood, and the angle in which she held her arm made it impossible to see clearly. A simple gold chain hung around her neck, but whatever pendant hung from it was hidden underneath her shirt, resting between modest cleavage that was nonetheless inappropriate for day-to-day wear. Her slim shoulder blade, which he got a look at when she twisted her body around to take in her surroundings, sported a severe burn. His eyes traveled up the length of her graceful neck, spotting another whitish scar, and scanned her face.

Despite not being a typical "beauty," she was rather stunning, he noticed objectively. Her face was heart-shaped, her nose small and pert and graced with a smattering of light freckles. Her upper lip was the perfect cupid's bow that every girl aspired to have, and thinner than her full bottom lip, which was slightly swollen and split at one corner. He could not make out the color of her eyes from where he stood, especially since they were constantly roving, but he thought they were dark. Her hair, though pulled up into a ponytail and matted with blood and grime, was obviously long and curly and some shade of brown, though the layer of dust covering the odd pair made it hard to tell. A long, thin gash ran the length of her temple, and the opposite cheek boasted yet another scar, a white line scored into her high cheekbone.

What was perhaps most intriguing, though, was something that Albus would have missed if he hadn't been studying her in great detail. A strange, orange light flared under the skin of her chest and rippled quickly through her body, gone before he could get a better look. He watched her shudder with the light's movement, closing her eyes briefly before snapping them open again.

She looked straight at him, tears running down her cheeks and making tracks through the dust and blood. Her eyes were dark, pleading, unfathomable. Equal parts compassion and suspicion swelled within his chest. He frowned.

She wiped blood and dust from her eyes to get a better look at him; and then shock and confusion registered plainly on her pretty face. Her bottom lip quivered.

"Dumbledore?" she said, her voice small and weak. Then, curiously, she looked over at Fawkes the phoenix, training those enigmatic dark eyes on his beloved pet. "Oh Fawkes," she said, tears running heavily down her face. She shook her head. "What have you done?"

Meeting Albus' eyes once more, she fainted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Just so you know, there will be a few flashbacks at the beginnings of some of the chapters. They don't necessarily relate to anything specific within the chapter, and they aren't in any particular order. They're there to sort of give you some idea of what things were like for Hermione and Draco before they landed in 1944. And expect that, if I reference something in a chapter that you don't quite understand, it will be in a flashback later on in the story. Just thought I'd let you know so that you don't get confused.**

 **Secondly, I just want to say that I am NOT good at multi-chapter stories. I find them to be exhausting. I've always liked a good one-shot. It's like a good one-night-stand: enjoyable, but without strings – you forget about it and move on to the next one. I tend to move way too fast, but I'm trying to keep a lid on it here. If you noticed that things are progressing unnaturally or that the story line is completely unrealistic,** **PLEASE TELL ME.** **Whether in a PM or a review, let me know what you think. I will probably love you for it later.**

 **Thanks to electricsymphony, who always brightens my day (well, my week, really) with her eloquent reviews. I've missed you!**

 **Also, I forgot to put a disclaimer in my first chapter, so here it is: I don't own Harry Potter, and I cry myself to sleep every night mourning that fact.**

 **On to the story!**

 **Giraffe :)**

* * *

oooo

Hermione woke only moments after she fainted.

She was extremely embarrassed that she had done so, considering it had never happened to her before. She was not in the habit of swooning. Even while enduring two months worth of torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange and even occasionally Voldemort himself, she had never passed out from the pain, though she'd admittedly come close multiple times. Then again, she had never been in a situation like this before.

Despite having spent most of the day engaged in a bloody battle – in fact, the last five years of her life could be said to have been one long bloody battle – she had trained her mind to remain sharp no matter what trials and tribulations she had to endure. This was no different, although it was the most unlikely, outlandish thing that she had ever thought could have happened.

The Albus Dumbledore she had seen before her little fainting spell (she sneered inwardly at her own weakness) and was now again looking at through blurry eyes was far younger than she had ever seen him, and, most notably, very much _alive._ Which led her to the conclusion that she was either caught in an alternate reality or, more likely, had been thrust back in time. And not just back in time, but back to a time when she very likely had not even been born yet.

The prospect was mind-blowing and utterly frightening. Her head spun with the revelation. A shock of hot energy resonated in her chest and sent strange tingles throughout the rest of her body. She closed her eyes, suddenly dizzy, and shuddered heavily with the feeling. It reminded her that only a few minutes ago Fawkes had collided with her, and now he was lodged firmly inside of her ribcage. That searing heat, not quite as blindingly painful but still incredibly uncomfortable, was ever-present, pulsing along with the beating of her heart. As if there were _two hearts_ beating in tandem. Or like her heart had suddenly absorbed another, beating twice as strong.

It looked like Fawkes' essence was here to stay.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision and focus on her very un-dead former Headmaster, who was asking her a question. The first thing she noticed, of course, was that he held his wand in one hand – not the Elder Wand yet, she noted – and she tightened her grip on her own just in case.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?"

Hermione felt a sudden, irrational anger grip her by the throat. "Does it look like we're all right, Albus?" she snapped, her eyes undoubtedly flashing with her displeasure. She vaguely registered Fawkes landing next to her on the floor, and she absentmindedly ran a hand down the smooth red-orange feathers of his neck and back.

Dumbledore stood leaning against his desk, staring at her with an inscrutable expression. "Are we…acquainted?" he asked, his tone deceptively light but underlined with steel. "I find myself unable to remember ever having met you, but you seem to be awfully familiar with me. And Fawkes seems to be comfortable in your presence," he added, gesturing to the beautiful bird.

Hermione pushed herself to her feet, unsteady and weak. Her transport through time and space had felt like she'd been sucked through a very tight, very long tube the width of her little finger, dark and oppressive and utterly terrifying. As a result she felt like her body, already in bad shape from the battle at Hogwarts, had been kneaded and stretched like a particularly elastic piece of dough.

Albus calmly raised his wand as she stood, and she scoffed. "Honestly, Professor, put that away," she said, rolling her eyes. "If I'd wanted to do you harm, I would have acted on it already." She looked him solidly in the eye. "I do know you, Albus – and rather well, at that. We just haven't met yet…" she continued, shifting on her feet. "Well, I mean, in _this_ time." She looked around. "Which is when, exactly?"

Albus Dumbledore, like Hermione herself, had a remarkably sharp, quick mind. She saw the surprise flit across his face, soon replaced with a look of keen interest. "What time did you come from? And what is your name?"

Despite herself, she found her lips quirking up at the corners. Same old Dumbledore. It was so like him to answer a question with a question. However, she was very aware that Draco remained unconscious on the floor beside her, and she was hard pressed for time.

"My name is Hermione," she said, not offering her surname. It was best, she thought, not to give away any information at this point unless necessary. Narrowing her eyes and making sure her tone was firm and yet not hostile – she most certainly didn't want her old Headmaster as an enemy, especially when she was stuck in a different era – she continued. "Let me make one thing abundantly clear, Professor Dumbledore," she said lowly, making sure her eyes never left his. "I don't have time for your games, and I know you too well to be manipulated by you – I've had enough of that for a lifetime, thanks very much," she quipped. "So you answer my question, and help me get my friend to the hospital wing, and I will answer yours when I see fit."

Hermione guessed that Albus Dumbledore had never been on the receiving end of any sort of insubordination, especially from someone that wasn't much older than most of his students. His eyebrows shot up into his hairline. He looked simultaneously displeased and amused. The twinkle in his cerulean eyes that she had once found endearing and mysterious was now something she abhorred, for it most often was a sign of scheming and impending manipulation.

Or imminent Legilimency, apparently.

He didn't even try to be subtle about it, and she saw him coming from a mile away. She imagined that he thought that, perhaps, because she was so young, she could not possibly be a match for someone of his age and experience – after all, it wasn't common for grown wizards to be proficient in mind magics, much less an adolescent; however, Hermione had experience of her own, and if she could manage to throw the likes of Voldemort out of her head she could do the same with her formerly beloved mentor. Her methods were a little bit unorthodox, she would be the first to admit, and there were certain images that she couldn't keep from popping to the forefront of her mind; Occlumency had never been one of her strengths, after all. Legilimency, however, she was _very_ good at. And, in true Hermione fashion, she had managed to turn her _offense_ into a very effective _defense._

Feeling her walls give way under his mental attack, she saw one of the memories from her imprisonment at Malfoy Manor: Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange standing over her prone form, the former's heavy cleated boot pressing insistently down on her midsection as the latter gleefully held her under the _Cruciatus_ curse for who knew how long – and then she did the mental equivalent of picking her broken wall up, swinging it like a baseball bat and slamming it into Dumbledore's own mental shields.

She didn't get very far – only a glimpse of his recent thoughts stemming from his brief interaction with her; she couldn't help but gasp at the image of herself in his mind. She looked positively dreadful. Then his superior mental barriers pushed her out, and, while his energies were diverted to his own defense, he could no longer focus on his invasion of her mind. He physically reeled backward, leaning heavily upon the desk that had propped him up just moments ago.

Hermione took a calculated step back from him, her wand held up between them. Just a formality, really, to show him that she was no pushover. "Well, _that_ was rude," she said, the exasperation in her tone mocking him. She couldn't _help_ herself. She often used sarcasm as a suit of armor. "But now that you know that that particular method won't work, perhaps we can try things my way?" she finished, smiling at him in a manner that wasn't entirely friendly.

She was pleased to note that his eyes no longer twinkled at her. His gaze was not openly hostile, however; she had not expected it to be. Dumbledore's mind was far too inquisitive to pass up a chance to learn something new; he almost never jumped to conclusions, and was good at pushing aside his emotions in favor of satisfying his curiosity. Instead those blue orbs were shrewdly wary and questioning. His face was blank. Even at a younger age, Albus was a master at his game. No wonder Voldemort had been so obsessed with defeating him – they played the same field.

Hermione had learned to play over the years, too.

"It seems a pointless endeavor to argue with you, Hermione…" He paused, giving her a moment to fill in her last name; she did not. He coughed. "Well then, let's get your friend here to the infirmary." He looked her over. "You don't look to be doing so well, either. But once we get you patched up, I will insist on continuing this conversation, child. Rest assured, you will not be leaving that hospital wing until I have some answers."

"I understand that, sir," she responded, respectfully bowing her head. Despite her guardedness in his presence (for she had learned so much about Dumbledore after his death, and it had forever changed her opinion of him) Hermione knew that her old Headmaster was a good person, and a good ally to have. He wasn't entirely trustworthy – they had all learned that the hard way. But he was an advantageous friend to have in a situation like this. "Expect an Unbreakable Vow – or a Wizarding Oath, at the very least." She looked up into his eyes. "I can't trust you to not accidently let something slip that could be potentially disastrous if it fell into the wrong hands."

Dumbledore gave her a tight smile, but there was a quirk to it that suggested that he was pleased with her forethought. "Understood," he answered curtly, bowing his head in return. "Now, shall we get your friend…?"

"Draco."

" – Draco, to the hospital wing? He seems to be in…poor condition."

"Indeed." She turned once more to look at Fawkes. Her eyes narrowed. "I have a bone to pick with you, Fawkes," she said, trying to keep the unpleasant expression from her face. "Don't go too far, you hear?" She turned to Dumbledore to explain, turning the door handle as she did so. "Your feathered friend is the reason we're in this mess," she said coolly. "I'm not pleased with him at the moment."

"Interesting. I imagine I wouldn't be so pleased, either. Phoenixes rarely do anything without purpose, however." Dumbledore tucked his graying auburn beard into his belt before raising his wand and easily levitating Draco's limp form towards the door. She opened it and let the two men pass through ahead of her before shutting and locking the door of his office. She felt hot tears well in her eyes at the sight of Draco's body, a fresh reminder of their recent activity. She banished them before they could fall.

She followed Dumbledore's quick steps as well as she could, but she felt herself lagging. She was suddenly so overcome with exhaustion that she could barely stand on her own, let alone walk. She was in fact moving, her feet dragging the ground as her legs refused to properly work. Her condition was not just the effect of her wounds – she had been through much worse, and could handle these just fine, as evidenced by her state in the Battle of Hogwarts. It was the receding adrenaline, and the effect of the travel through space-time, and the effort that her body had made and was _still_ making in order to accommodate Fawkes' sudden and inexplicable presence in her body. She could feel his warmth…feel his fire. It flushed under her skin, prickling her nerves.

She vaguely heard Dumbledore speaking, but realized he was not addressing her; two, no three, forms had joined them in the hallway, rushing to their aid. Albus gave them some ambiguous explanation, and then she felt two figures at her side, helping to prop her up. A boy in Gryffindor robes was helping Dumbledore levitate Draco down the hall.

The girl on her right was big-boned and tall, with shoulder-length hair the color of straw. She was wearing her daily Hogwarts uniform, Hermione noticed as she was gently lowered to sit on the edge of a hospital bed, and wore her robes over the top and sported a shiny blue and silver prefect badge. Ravenclaw, then.

There was a boy on her left, though as her eyes blurred all she could see of him was dark hair and green-lined robes. A Slytherin. She mentally rolled her eyes. How _delightful._ While the pre-war Hermione would have scolded herself for the blatant stereotyping, the post-war Hermione felt no compunctions about judging harshly and swiftly. Such judgment had gone a long way in keeping her alive all these years, especially when Voldemort and his Death Eaters had officially labeled her Undesirable No. 2 (she would have almost felt flattered, if not for the increase in danger the title posed). Of course, there were always exceptions – several of her old classmates from Hogwarts had defected, including Draco, whose heroic actions had time and again belied the nature she assumed all Slytherins possessed. Still, it never hurt to be cautious. She could always change her opinion later.

 _Huh,_ she thought dreamily. _The hospital wing…when did we get here?_ As her mind began to drift into darkness, she struggled to stay alert. Now that she had gotten her little soiree with Dumbledore out of the way, she was rapidly losing energy and cognizance. She waved her arm at the blurry figure of the mediwitch on staff – whoever that was in this time period, she couldn't know. Albus had never actually given her the time frame that she'd asked for.

"Pepper up potion," she mumbled. She noticed that the fire in her heart was heating her blood, causing a sensation of warmth to move throughout her body and stay there. It was not painful, this time – it was actually rather comforting, and made her a bit sleepy.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, dear?" came a firm but kind voice at her side. "It might be better to put you to sleep in order to better treat your injuries."

The thought of being put to sleep around these strangers – Hogwarts staff or not, Dumbledore included – alarmed Hermione. They couldn't be allowed to find the shrunken purple bag that she had tucked into her bra, even if it _was_ warded; that little beaded bag, which she had been using since she, Harry and Ron had gone on their horcrux hunt, held _everything_ important. Including items that hadn't been invented yet – a computer, for one; books that hadn't yet been printed by people that hadn't yet been born, and all sorts of oddities including, but not limited to: Harry's invisibility cloak, the Marauders' Map, three basilisk fangs wrapped in plastic wrap (her Muggle heritage still made appearances), a set of extendable ears, and Harry's Firebolt. Dozens of bottles, safe in foam-padded chests, held a variety of potions: a bit of Wolfsbane, varying strengths of Veritaserum, less than a tablespoon of Felix Felicis, and plenty of Polyjuice, among others. Three extra wands were bundled tightly in the canvas fabric of her own tent. It also held all of her modern day clothing, including old, unused school uniforms, brightly colored lacy lingerie, and all-black cat-suits with sleek, magic-absorbent leather armor that made her feel like she was part of a S.W.A.T. team. Or a car thief. She even had her father's beautiful old-fashioned revolver and a cache of hand-grenades packed protectively in a tight, padded case.

Harry's entire inheritance, all of the forty-five thousand galleons in his Gringotts vault, was sitting, unassumingly, at the bottom of the bag in a giant wooden chest. All of the assets her parents left her in their will had been liquidated, and stacks of Muggle money were arranged neatly in a cardboard box, amounting to nearly four hundred thousand dollars. A locked safe protected part of the Malfoys' estate, about five million galleons worth of gold and jewels and old family heirlooms. In short, Hermione and Draco were rich beyond imagining, especially considering the rate of inflation in both the wizarding and the Muggle world. It was comforting, at least, to know that the two of them would be well financed despite whatever trouble they might get themselves into in this era.

That bag also held most of her personal belongings of sentimental value: photographs, jewelry given as gifts, a couple of Molly Weasley's horrendous but comfortable sweaters…

Clothing that had belonged to Ron. Things that she had put stasis charms on to keep them smelling like him.

Hermione shook her head adamantly, looking at the mediwitch and adopting her "authoritative Granger" attitude, so dubbed by Draco – the one that seemed to get the most results.

"Pepper up potion first, please," she said, even when her eyes went hazy and her shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

She thanked the mediwitch graciously as she uncorked the bottle and guzzled down the potion, the spicy taste making her eyes water even more. But she felt an instant improvement; not much of one, but it was enough to get her through this nightmare until she could find a way to resolve their little…problem.

She cleared her throat and blinked away the moisture in her eyes, sitting up straight and wincing as the burnt skin on her shoulder blade and back protested – loudly. She spoke.

"Please, help my friend first. He was hit with an unknown curse – a sort of black, smoky essence, but I didn't get a good look on how the caster did it. He's been unconscious for a few minutes. Most of my wounds are superficial – some of them I can heal myself," she said, remembering that she held her wand in her right hand and wondering how she'd managed to keep hold of it through it all. Instinct, she supposed. "I can wait. Please – go to him first."

The mediwitch seemed stunned into action, immediately following Hermione's commands. It was obvious that the healer had never been subjected to dealing with a victim of war, much less two. Hermione watched her perform a scanning spell on Draco's still form. Most of his body flared red, and all of a sudden Hermione wanted desperately to cry.

But she did not. Because she needed to keep her wits about her.

Mad-Eye Moody's voice echoed in her head. _Constant vigilance!_

Discretely so that no one would notice, she shifted closer to the side table of the bed she was on…a Daily Prophet sat there, opened to page two, and there was a date printed in tiny letters at the bottom corner: Monday, September 18th, 1944.

Something resonated within her, like the answer to some puzzle where the pieces didn't fit in quite right.

 _Ah._ In the summer of 1941, a rebel group, led by Zhou Feng, an idealist that was perhaps a little too heavy-handed with violence during his campaign, had attacked the Chinese Ministry. They had also razed a well-established wizarding school in the far western mountains to the ground a couple of months before, though Feng claimed later that it was merely an accident – and that no loss of life was intended to occur. Unfortunately, forty students and two professors died in the fire, and the remaining students found shelter within the Ministry of Magic, which, consequently, was attacked by the same group not a month later. Then many students had been forced to go on the run, while many others were forced to fight. It was a plausible explanation that Hermione and Draco, after a couple of years of war, had been fighting to help protect the Ministry against the second attack by the rebel group, which had happened on September 18th.

It was their best bet as a back-story; two students that had been ousted from their home and then forced to fight and flee to survive. If Hermione claimed to have fled the war in Europe, escaping Grindewald's grisly campaign, there were details that could be researched and verified, and Hermione and Draco would be discovered to be liars, and people would demand to know the truth. If she said that they had gone to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, they would be ousted as soon as someone had the presence of mind to check the student logbooks. But very few people here knew of what was going on in China and the rest of Asia. Both Draco and she knew Mandarin, were mostly fluent in it – close enough to pass inspection. They had been to China and had stayed there for quite some time – had even travelled to the ruins of the old school, which had been abandoned after its destruction. They'd spent hours upon days upon weeks researching and discovering all the Orient had to offer.

It would have to do. Now the only problem was not knowing if Draco would blurt something out when he awakened from this coma, or if she could at least use Legilimency to plant the story inside his head so that he understood what to say and what not to say; although planting things in someone's mind was _extremely_ difficult, and Hermione wasn't so sure she could pull it off. Also, how would they explain their ability to apparate through Hogwarts' defensive warding? They would need a good excuse.

The implications of being exposed as time-travelers would be…unfathomable. It would be an unparalleled disaster. Chaos of epic proportions would follow.

She thought again about Dumbledore, about how much to reveal to him. She honestly didn't know. She could probably read him better than most people, but that wasn't saying much. The bottom line was, as much as she wanted to give everything over to him and let him handle it, she couldn't trust him.

Plus, even throughout her school years, Dumbledore had been secretive and manipulative. He would never willingly hurt an innocent person, especially a child – but he had no such compunctions about using them. He had used them all at some point or another, and at the end, at the First Battle of Hogwarts, when it was supposed to have been over, it just…wasn't. The last few years of her life had been a total disaster. After Hogwarts, and after Harry, Ron and she had travelled around the British Isles on their search for horcruxes, they had come to realize just what an impossible task had been set upon their young shoulders. That was also around the time that they were exposed to the utter brutality that Voldemort and his followers were capable of.

They had all had a hard time with Cedric Diggory's murder, the battle at the Department of Mysteries with Sirius' death, and the death of Dumbledore, but it had _truly_ started with the murder of her parents, and on the drawing room floor at Malfoy Manor, and the subsequent death of Dobby. The First Battle of Hogwarts had been a nightmare, and they'd lost many Order members and students. And it had continued in the same manner for years, growing worse and worse over time. People were captured and tortured until they begged for execution. Muggle families – including children of any age – were targeted at random, killed in their homes or kidnapped for the Death Eaters' own amusement. Muggleborn families were told to flee, or given sanctuary by the Order and set up at safe houses.

Hermione had been too late. She had failed her parents, not gotten to them in time, and they had suffered immensely at the hands of Voldemort himself before they were brutally killed.

And Albus Dumbledore had not experienced any of this with them; he did not know the horror that they'd had to endure, the loss they'd had to deal with, the constant injury and the unrelenting grief and the body count piling up. He had not had to watch as his friends and colleagues died around him, did not have to watch as the Golden Trio struggled to come up with the answers – searching for _anything_ that might help them. And Hermione, with her incredible capacity for forgiveness, had _not_ forgiven Dumbledore for all that he had done – and all that he hadn't done, but should have. Because after the horrific events of her twentieth birthday on September 19th, 1999, and Hermione's ensuing imprisonment, something in her had broken, and she would never be able to get her former optimism and sense of morality back. The idealistic, somewhat naïve girl, still able to maintain a sense of disillusionment about the world despite what was going on around her – that girl had died in those two gruesome months, and Hermione was never the same afterwards.

She would have to get Draco's opinion on how much to involve their Headmaster (well, she supposed he was only a Transfiguration professor and Deputy Headmaster, in 1944) later, when he woke up. For now, she would play her cards close to her chest – which might be difficult, because she wasn't quite as good as Draco was at keeping up a constant fake façade. But she would have to do it; it was a matter of survival. She wasn't fit to act on Broadway, but she could lie well enough that she would get by. It had taken years to be able to lie even a tenth as well as Draco or Pansy or any other Slytherin could, but under their tutelage (and the pressure of being in some sticky situations) she had learned to guard her emotions better and to spin a quick, realistic tale that would fool others. Unfortunately, despite her progress, apparently her eyes really were the windows to her soul; Draco told her that he had learned to truly read her because of the emotion that swirled so blatantly in her chocolate gaze. That was something she suspected she would never be able to control.

Narcissa Malfoy had been an excellent teacher though, as patient in teaching Hermione how to school her expressions and lie convincingly as Hermione had been in teaching her how to cast a patronus. Draco in turn had taken it upon himself to teach her Legilimency, and, to everyone's surprise, she had caught on quickly and become proficient at it in a matter of months.

Strangely enough she struggled more with Occlumency, having a hard time keeping people out of her mind. So she had developed her own brand of defense, that which she had used with Dumbledore just a few minutes ago: when someone tried to enter her mind, she would push up a memory that would do no harm (like she and Harry and Ron at the Burrow, or having Ginny do her hair, or drinking firewhisky with Draco), and then she would quickly go on the offensive, forcing the attacker out of her head by focusing her energies on getting into their mind. It worked for her fairly well, although certain memories, despite her efforts of hiding them away, were sometimes pulled to the forefront of her mind no matter how hard she tried. Nothing with sensitive, secret information, but just memories she would rather forget.

Watching Sirius fall through the Veil. Being tortured and carved up on the floor of the Malfoy Manor parlor; seeing her bright, pure scarlet blood, untainted by mud of any kind, seep into the floor as the Malfoys looked on with horrified eyes shining from carefully impassive faces. The sense of horror when she found her parents' mangled bodies. Being captured by snatchers for a second time, watching on with Ron, Fleur and Ginny, as Seamus Finnigan was killed in an unmentionable way. Legions of inferi. Being attacked by a manticore. Nearly drowning in the cold waters around Iceland. Seeing Voldemort raise his wand, red eyes gleaming, as he struck down Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall as Bellatrix cackled with glee.

Waking up in a cell to the smell of death.

Hermione pulled herself out of her own thoughts, knowing the path that those memories would lead her down. But just for a moment, the stench of rotting flesh entered her nose, and she felt the urge to vomit.

Remembering where she was, and angry that she had let her thoughts wander thus, she raised her wand and began to attend to her own wounds, her brown eyes flashing every few seconds to where her time-traveling companion lay, still unconscious, though his breathing seemed to slow and deepen as the unnamed mediwitch hovered over him, waving her wand in complex patterns over his unmoving form. Hermione let a small smile grace her face – even whilst lying down, injured, and pale as death, Draco Malfoy still managed to cut an impressive figure. As Dumbledore, the mediwitch and her assistant, the boy in the Gryffindor uniform that she'd seen before, cut off Draco's blood soaked clothes, they revealed a pale, well-muscled body that was scarred by years of throwing curses and receiving them.

As each scar was revealed, Hermione recalled where he had gotten them. She remembered his duel with Harry in their sixth year, resulting in a handful of small, faint white scars that littered his upper body. A shallow scrape on the back of his thigh was the result of a narrow escape from a bad-tempered manticore. Just below his right pectoral was a circular scar that had come, strangely enough, from a Muggle bullet. A jagged pink line draped itself over Draco's broad right shoulder, caused by a slicing hex at some time or another. A nasty, puckered scar, nearly purple in color, ran the length of the inside of his left forearm, distorting his Dark Mark; it was an ironic mirror of the faint, white writing on her own arm, carved there so long ago by a half-mad woman intent on inflicting the highest level of pain on someone she considered to be worth less than the bottom of her shoe. Strangely enough, Draco had gotten his fighting the very same witch, his deranged aunt.

The worst indications of past violence inflicted upon her handsome friend, however, were the many raised stripes of skin that crisscrossed his back. They were a gruesome and heartbreaking testament to the earlier years of his life that he spent living with Lucius Malfoy, and he had only admitted this to her and Harry after several shots of firewhisky one New Year's Eve at Grimmauld Place. The next morning he seemed not to remember talking about it in front of Harry and her, and they had never let on that they knew. When Hermione ventured to ask Pansy about it later, the pretty Slytherin's cobalt eyes filled with tears and she had begged the two Gryffindors not to ever mention it – especially in front of Narcissa, whose guilt as having failed Draco as a mother drowned her everyday. Of course Harry and Hermione had solemnly agreed and had never spoken a word of it since.

There were, of course, many other scars and disfigurements that littered Draco's finely sculpted body, but contemplating them all would send Hermione into a tailspin of memories that she would have a hard time pulling herself out of. She was prone to wallowing at inconvenient times, and now was definitely inconvenient.

As she struggled to remove her blood-soaked left shoe and sock without pulling the burnt skin on her back, she felt a presence in front of her, casting her into shadow. Instinct had her tensing, an offensive spell on the tip of her tongue, but she forced herself to relax, trying to remember that she was no longer on a battlefield but safe in the hospital wing of Hogwarts.

But…how safe were they, exactly?

"Here, let me."

She looked up, taking in the dark haired Slytherin boy from earlier that had rushed to her aid. She subtly did a perfunctory examination of his form. He was devastatingly handsome – she thought, almost angrily, that he was far better looking than any of her friends and acquaintances back in her time. He was even more visually stunning than Draco or Harry or old pictures she had seen of Sirius Black, and it almost felt like a betrayal to their memories.

His hair was shiny and black, perfectly wavy in a way that looked unintentionally styled; the kind of hair Hermione had envied her whole life. His eyes were dark, but of an indeterminable color, and his skin was gorgeously pale. He was tall, surely over six feet, and he stood with perfect posture that looked as natural as breathing. His chest and shoulders were wide, but his waist and hips were far narrower, though it was hard to get a definite sense of his size and musculature whilst he wore robes. His fine, curved lips were pulled upwards in a semblance of a smile.

Why a semblance, you ask? Because there was not even a hint of warmth in those dark eyes. They were frigid and depthless, dark pools of icy water that reflected back at her.

It made her uncomfortable, and yet she was sucked into those eyes, hopelessly intrigued by the coolness of them, the lack of feeling or indication of his thoughts. Nearly jealous of how they revealed no emotion.

Hermione leant back slowly, warily outstretching her leg in his direction. "Thank you," she said softly. He bent down on one knee, bringing her left foot gingerly up to rest on his thigh. Her eyes, sharp as an eagle's, tracked his movements.

She did not trust him.

But then again, she did not trust much of anyone anymore. And especially not here, when the only person she _did_ trust implicitly to watch her back was unconscious.

She did not expect the tender way in which this Slytherin began to unlace her shoes, one at a time; did not anticipate the gentleness of his large hands as he pulled the soiled boots from her small feet, followed by her socks. He then cast a quick _Tergeo_ followed by a _Scourgify_ on his hands and her leg (both done nonverbally, she noticed, cataloguing the detail away for later), and began to work on finishing the job Harry had so pathetically tried to start.

His healing spells were as well cast as hers were, but he could do them mostly nonverbally, which she had always struggled with in learning medical spells. Healing spells were among the few that Hermione had never mastered nonverbally or wandlessly, in addition to a few other dark spells that required greater power to cast. As such, a sudden spike of jealousy flared in her chest – part of that innate competitive streak that had propelled her through both school _and_ war, detrimental though it may have been to her mental health and her relationships.

She was tempted to start on the healing of her broken wrist, but was afraid she would botch it because of her exhaustion and the damage to her right hand, which, whilst adrenaline had been pumping through her body, she had been able to ignore; but now that the high of the adrenaline of battle that she was so used to had worn off, she felt each hurt tenfold, and her right hand, her wand hand, was struggling to grasp the long piece of dark walnut due to the entire layer of skin having been scraped off and her knuckles bruised and swollen beyond recognition. She let her wand rest on the bed beside her, just an inch away.

She startled as she felt a lightly calloused hand graze her right calf and ankle in a curious caress. She looked down to see the stranger examining her leg with a calculating gaze, turning the calf over this way and that to study the nasty puckered scars there. Three deep gouges ran parallel from her knee to her ankle, and there was a clear semi-circle of tooth indentations on her heel. They were relatively fresh and had not healed well, over the last two months since she'd received them, due to infection. They were still tender.

"What happened?" he asked curiously, his eyes meeting hers.

She tilted her head to the side, regarding him with sharp dark eyes that missed very little these days. She contemplated what to tell him, and settled on the truth, though she did not offer details. "Werewolf," she said, her answer quiet, meant for his ears only. "Albeit in human form. After that, infection."

He did not respond but for a slight downward turn of his lips and a mysterious flash in his eyes, merely went back to work, standing fluidly and moving to heal the rest of her injuries. He lifted her damaged right hand gingerly and she stifled a hiss of pain as he reattached the skin, although she did wince.

She stiffened as he began to reach for her left arm, which she had cradled to her chest. She had never bothered to cover the scar that Bellatrix had given her, calling her out on her heritage, but that was before, in her future. Everyone had known who she was, and she had never been ashamed of her lineage. It was a core part of her identity.

She enjoyed the irony that she could outmatch almost any Pureblood on the battlefield and in the classroom. She had, in her sixth year, been awarded the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, an award only given before to Dumbledore in his school days. She was fluent in four languages: English, Russian, French and Mandarin, and had a fair knowledge of Gobbledygook, Spanish and Haitian Creole. She had invented many of her own spells and potions, spending hours slaving away over books and writing a few theories of her own. She had great magical power, rivaled only by a select few: Voldemort, Dumbledore, Harry, Dolohov, Bellatrix, maybe Draco (on a good day) and perhaps (to her surprise and everyone else's) Luna Lovegood. She had defeated countless Death Eaters in duels, and had gained quite the reputation amongst the ranks of both sides of the war. Voldemort himself had targeted her often when he had the opportunity, sensing a worthy target and a huge threat, and she had avoided him like the plague; she knew that, while she might have given him one of the best fights of his life, she would not be able to defeat the Dark Lord single-handedly. But everyone else was fair game, and while she had her fair share of scars, she had not been beaten yet.

And yet, she was just a Mudblood. Irony at its best.

However, in this time, in this place, surrounded by people she did not trust and faces she did not know, she had a gut feeling that it would not do for them to know of her blood status. There was so much that she still didn't know, and she needed to get her bearings before she played. She wiggled the fingers on her right hand, and managed to put a passable glamour charm on the inside of her left arm just in time for him to pull it away from her chest. The scar appeared fuzzy and indistinct.

She bit down on her already swollen lip (Selwyn had caught her by surprise when he'd slapped her hard across the face, forgoing magic to physically assault her) as her healer's large, cool hands cradled her shattered wrist. She could not help the snarl of a foul curse word that came, unbidden, to her lips.

The boy's head shot up as she uttered a pain-filled _"fuck,"_ quietly but loud enough for him to hear. The smirk that curved his lips was one of shocked, but not necessarily disapproving, amusement.

"Hurts, does it?" he said smartly, grinning, and she sent him a loathing glare that would instantly silence most men. However, apparently this man was not "most men," and he just grinned wider, waving his wand over her wrist to assess the damage.

"What's your name?" he asked. His tone, just slightly teasing before, had slipped into a sort of politeness that she supposed would charm most people; but Hermione Granger was not "most people." His expression was not unkind, but there was a sort of distance about it that implied that he didn't really care as much as he wanted people to believe he did. And those eyes were still bitterly cold.

"Hermione." She noticed a glint of silver on the lapel of his jacket, hidden partially by his robe. "And yours?" she asked in return, adopting a similar expression of polite disinterest that she hoped, somewhat childishly, would irritate him.

He shifted, and she saw that the metallic glint on his lapel came from a shiny silver and green Head Boy badge. She cocked her head, curious, rifling through her memories, jumping back to everything she had ever read on the school year of 1944-1945. She froze, suddenly, and her eyes travelled from his proud badge to the eyes that she found so entrancing.

"Tom," he said, one eyebrow lifting imperiously. He stuck out a hand for her to shake. "Tom Riddle."

For the second time that day, Hermione fainted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Welcome back!**

 **So, one thing I want to mention. I got a very helpful review from JuliaLestrange, who was not afraid to tell me of her concerns regarding my story; and English isn't even her first language, so I admire her willingness to communicate with me despite that. She brought up the dreaded "Hermione is a total badass and has crazy awesome powers and kicks everybody's butt and has no weaknesses" cliché that you sometimes find with wartime HP stories.**

 **I share her concerns. Of course, as someone who loves Hermione's character dearly, I want her to be this unstoppable force of nature that can take on the world and crush evil villains under the heel of her shoe. However, I am very aware that that scenario is more than a little unrealistic. Hermione is not infallible. She isn't this perfect ninja witch that can cast** _ **Avada Kedavra**_ **with just a glance and a twitch of her finger. However, keep in mind that Hermione has been training for years; she is now a war-hardened soldier. She is twenty-three, no longer a teenager, and she's been fighting an increasingly violent war since seventeen. While she's not the greatest thing to ever happen to the wizarding world, she is better at magic (in general, but also wandless and nonverbal) and more powerful than most people she will encounter along the way – especially considering her age. She also has a little bit of help from Fawkes, but that will be explored more as the story goes on. She has something that most wizards and witches don't have: incredible control over her magic. She also knows a lot of Riddle's secrets, and this gives her an advantage.**

 **But Tom Riddle, even as a young man, is still more powerful than she is; she just has more practical experience, and it puts them on even footing, so they are very well-matched at this point. They both still have a lot to learn. Also, Hermione has quite a bit of experience in fighting dirty, which gives her a leg up – she doesn't exactly play by the book. Anyways, there will be a lot of push-pull in this story; she isn't going to be some weak-willed maiden who Tom is able to "own," but she isn't going to be some all-knowing, all-powerful ninja Jedi hell-angel. She will run some circles around him and his minions a couple of times, but they'll get the best of her on occasion as well. And then there will be times when they all get along just fine. Like I said, push-pull. This isn't going to be your traditional protagonist-meets-antagonist story. The lines drawn are faint and fairly ambiguous. And while Hermione isn't technically afraid of Tom – she has nothing left to lose, after all, and teenage Tom isn't half as bad as Voldemort from her time – she is wary of his power and maintains a healthy respect for him as a wizard. Likewise, he comes to learn that she isn't just a pretty girl who's good at spells – she is dangerous. He first starts to realize this in chapters 8 and 9, but it takes a while for his goons to catch on.**

 **So. Yeah. Now that that's out of the way, let's get on with it. Otherwise I could prattle on for another seven paragraphs, and nobody really wants to read all that. So let's do this!**

* * *

oooo

"One need not be a chamber to be haunted, one need not to be a house. The brain has corridors surpassing material place." -Emily Dickinson

She can't see the landscape anymore  
It's all painted in her grief  
All of her history etched out at her feet  
Now all of the landscape  
It's just an empty place  
Acres of longing  
Mountains of tenderness  
Cause she's just like the weather  
Can't hold her together  
Born from dark water  
Daughter of the rain and snow…

\- "Landscape" by Florence + the Machine

* * *

oooo

 _Monday, July 3, 1996  
Granger residence, Oxford_

" _Please, be at ease, Miss Granger."_

 _Hermione shifts nervously in her seat, unable to relax when Albus Dumbledore sits on her parents' sofa and drinks their tea. Her mum and dad are sitting outside on the back porch, undoubtedly curious but respectful of the privacy that Dumbledore has asked for._

" _Professor…" she begins, gnawing on her bottom lip. "Is everything all right? Has anything happened? Harry and Ron –"_

" _Are perfectly safe," Albus says with a chuckle, waving her off. Then he sighs, and his eyes are serious. "For how long remains to be seen."_

 _Hermione swallows. She has a quick mind; while she admires and respects and loves her headmaster, she also knows that he is calculative and manipulative, and he is here because he wants something from her. Dumbledore has always liked her, but he has never shown any really special interest in her – only Harry. So she finds it doubtful that he has come to call for anything other than a very specific reason._

" _What do you need me to do?" she asks quietly. For while she knows that Dumbledore is using her, she doesn't mind it so much. She would do anything –_ _ **anything**_ _– for Harry and Ron._

 _Dumbledore smiles at her. "Ah. You've figured me out already, have you?"_

 _She gives him a small smile in return. "While we haven't interacted much one on one, Professor, I still know you rather well. I'm observant that way."_

 _He sets his teacup down on the table – white, blue and yellow floral patterned china that had been a wedding gift for her parents – and folds his long-fingered hands in his lap. "Indeed, Miss Granger. So shall we skip the formalities?"_

" _Yes, let's," she replies, nodding._

 _Albus sighs. "What lengths would you go to in order to keep your friends safe, Hermione?"_

 _She meets his eyes determinedly. "Whatever you need me to do, Albus, I'll do it. Please don't hesitate to ask me."_

 _If Dumbledore is surprised by her use of his first name, he does not show it. In fact, he seems rather pleased. "Good, Hermione – that's very good. So if I were to ask you to lay down your life for them, you would do it without hesitation?"_

" _I would," she replies steadily, and she finds that she means it._

 _Dumbledore smiles at her. "Don't worry – it will not come to that, I don't think." He pauses, and she waits patiently for him to continue. "You are, by far, the smartest person I know, Hermione Granger," he said casually. She does not flush under the praise as some would – it is said as a fact, not a compliment, and she takes it as such. "You also have an unwavering sort of loyalty to your friends."_

" _I love them," she said. "I love them more than anything."_

 _He nods. "Which is why I will come to rely heavily upon you from here on out, Hermione. I need your mind, I need your courage, I need your ability to see things objectively. You are not like your two friends, Miss Granger. While Harry is magically powerful, kind of heart and rather intuitive, he is sometimes unable to make rational decisions. And while Mister Weasley is unflinchingly brave and has a mind for strategy, he lacks the ability to think logically. That is why the three of you make a great team." He smiles at her. "Those two boys wouldn't have gotten very far without you over the years. You are good at keeping them alive, Hermione. Unfortunately, it's only going to get worse from here."_

" _Sir?"_

" _Voldemort has a body now. He has his wand back," Dumbledore says, and for the first time ever she sees the age and stress on his face. "He is a hundred times more powerful with a corporeal form – you've seen this, at the Department of Mysteries two months ago. The wizarding world and Harry Potter are in more danger than ever before."_

 _She swallows, wiping her sweaty palms on the denim of her shorts. "What can I do to help?"_

" _You can train," Dumbledore says, and Hermione's eyebrow climbs up her forehead of its own volition._

" _Train, Professor?"_

" _Every other Saturday and Sunday I'd like you to train with Professor Snape. He has volunteered to give you special training in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Mister Weasley will spend this time with Minerva, and I will take responsibility for Harry's training, as his will be unique," he finishes, patting the end of his beard._

 _Hermione stares at him. "You want me to train with Snape." It is not a question. "Do you really think things will get that bad, Albus, that students will be forced into combat?"_

 _Dumbledore bows his head. "I think it would be wise to prepare for it, Hermione. Besides, the three of you aren't just students. By associating with Harry, you and Ron have thrown yourself into the thick of things."_

" _I don't regret it," she says quietly. "I wouldn't have it any other way. And if you deem this training wise, then I will train my hardest. Snape hates me, though."_

 _Dumbledore chuckles. "I assure you, he does not. Most students irritate Severus, but he has a grudging respect for a select few, and you are one of those few. I suspect he jumped on the chance to train you simply because he didn't want to be saddled with Ron or Harry, who he thinks are especially thick. You are a quick learner, and you pay attention, and you don't let his prickly demeanor get under your skin. I think you will do well with him, one on one. Trust me on this."_

" _I do," Hermione says quietly, though there is a small part of her that has always been suspicious of her headmaster. "What about the others?" she asks. "What about Luna and Neville and Seamus and Ginny and the twins and all the other DA members?"_

 _Dumbledore nods. "They will continue to practice DADA in a group, much as they did last year – Moody will be handling that."_

" _When do we start?" she asks._

" _You will begin at the end of this month, and it will continue in the same manner when school begins," he answers. He stands, and she follows suit. "Do you have any questions?"_

 _Hermione shakes her head. "As soon as you leave I'm sure a hundred will come to mind, but not at the moment. I'm processing."_

 _Dumbledore chuckles as he leaves, and she waves at him in farewell._

* * *

oooo

 _She wakes up in the dark._

 _It is cold down here, in this place – wherever this place is – and she pulls her nightgown and robe more tightly around her, shifting on the hard stone floor and blinking rapidly until her eyes adjust to the darkness. She is on her back, still in her nightclothes, which are nearly soaked through with moisture. She tries to sit up, and it takes several attempts before she is successful. Turning her head this way and that to work out the kinks that have formed from sleeping on a cold, stone floor, she squints and pushes her loose, sticky hair from her face._

 _And then she remembers._

When Hermione woke up, the sky was shaded with cherry and indigo and ginger.

She stirred, groaning when she realized just how sore she was. Looking to her left, she saw Draco, still unconscious, on one of the hospital wing beds. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, and sighed in relief.

And then it all came flooding back to her. _Tom Riddle. Voldemort._ As a teenager, here in Hogwarts, where she and Draco were trapped for an indeterminable amount of time, thrown here by an unknown force that had something to do with Fawkes.

Bolting upright, she cast her eyes around in a panic, seeking out the face that she least wanted to see; but he was not there. The hospital wing was nearly empty, save for one solitary figure sitting in a chair at the foot of her bed.

She relaxed minutely. Still trying to reconcile this version of Albus Dumbledore with the one she had known from her time, she cleared her throat.

"How is he?" she asked timidly, unsure of what else to say.

Dumbledore gave her a reassuring smile. "Your friend is as well as can be expected. He needs more rest – Madam Soranus has given him potions that ensure that he is in little to no pain as his body recovers."

She nodded, slowly stretching and testing her muscles before sitting up, propping her back against the pillows. She looked him over slyly, noticing that his beard was a few inches shorter, and his hair mostly grey shot through with bright auburn. His face lacked several of the lines she was used to seeing on his face. She looked him in the eye, sure to keep her mental barriers strong lest he decide to do a little more "digging" in her head.

"What aren't you telling me?" she asked bluntly, watching his face closely. She had not known Dumbledore as well as Harry had, but she'd known him enough that she could read him fairly well; as well as anyone could read someone who had nearly perfected the art of guarding his emotions. But if she had learned to read Draco Malfoy, she could hopefully keep up with Dumbledore enough to suit her purposes – especially a Dumbledore that had fifty years less experience than the one she had come to know in the nineties.

He cleared his throat, watching her carefully over his half-moon spectacles. "What do you think I am leaving out, Miss…?"

"Granger," she confirmed. "Hermione Granger. My companion's name is Draco – Draco Mallery," she lied, thinking quickly. The Malfoy name was a conspicuous one. She paused, and gave him a gentle but somewhat pained smile. "Please, don't spare me details because you think they will cause me sorrow, Albus." She could not help her slight smile, for, even if she might not be able to completely trust him, Dumbledore was a familiar face in this place, and his presence brought her comfort.

The professor sighed, his blue eyes sparkling. "I do not think this is the time to impart to you any information that may cause you suffering, Miss Granger. You need rest."

"I've had hours to rest," she said, staring him straight in the eye. "I can handle it, Professor. Tell me."

If he seemed surprised by her candor, or with the straightforwardness with which she addressed him, he did not show it. "Mister Mallery has been hit with a very dark curse. Whatever it was – and I don't know what that is, to tell the truth – has started to slowly shut down his organs, and, though Madam Soranus has managed to somewhat suspend the curse and therefore slow down its progression, she has not been able to cure him of it; nor does she think she will be able to."

Hermione swallowed. Tears threatened, but she ignored them. "How long?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Albus exhaled through his nose. "A few weeks, perhaps? Months, if he's lucky. It's hard to tell." He paused, letting the news sink in. "I am very sorry, Miss Granger."

She nodded, shutting her eyes. "It won't be the first time I've lost someone," she said softly.

"If I may ask…?"

"Not yet," Hermione responded, cutting him off before he could even begin. "I need to think about a few things before I reveal any detailed information about us or our circumstances. I hope you can understand, Professor. We are…in a delicate position, you could say, and I can't trust anyone right now." She sighed in relief when he simply bowed his head in acquiescence. "Just know that we do not pose a threat to Hogwarts." She smiled. "I did go to school here once upon a time, after all."

He replied, speaking with great deliberation. "Would you be amenable to being asked a couple of questions under Veritaserum, simply for me to verify that you and Mister Mallery are not a threat? I do not trust easily either, I'm afraid," he said with a faint smile.

She inclined her head. "Very well," she agreed, trying to fake reluctance. She did not mention that she and Draco and most of the Order of the Phoenix had developed a strong resistance to most strains of Veritaserum. She was immune to all but the strongest, most complex brews – and most assuredly to anything that had been invented by this decade. But it would not do to let that information slip.

He produced a vial from the pocket of his robes that contained a measured amount of the transparent potion – about an eighth of a teaspoon. She took it in her right hand (her left was bandaged heavily, still under the effects of Skele-Gro and still throbbing with pain). She popped the top off with her thumb and tossed the contents back, swallowing repeatedly until the very subtle astringent taste was out of her mouth. She felt the potion take effect – felt the urge to spill all of her secrets, the eagerness to answer any question asked – and isolated the feeling within her mind as she had been taught, bypassing it completely. Dumbledore waited a few seconds and then, believing she was properly susceptible to the potion's effects, began to ask her questions.

"What is your full name, and the full name of your companion, and when were you both born?"

"Hermione Jean Granger, born September 19, 1979, and Draco Lucius Mallery, born June 5, 1980," she said. No use lying about the years – he already knew about the time traveling. The issue was that they needed to appear to be school aged if they were to pull this deception off – even if Draco looked a bit old to pass as a believable seventeen-year-old.

A small about of shock registered on his face. "So far. That is a long way back to travel, Miss Granger." He shook his head, seemingly deliberating, before he continued. "And I assume you are both of legal age – and it seems you have a birthday right around the corner?" he said, eyes twinkling familiarly.

She nodded. "I'll be twenty-three tomorrow, Professor," she confirmed. She tried not to think too hard about it; it only incited painful memories.

She could still pass for a comfortable seventeen or eighteen. What really affected her and Draco's looks, age-wise, was the stress that years of war had put on their bodies and faces. They were good-looking young adults in their prime, but both were scarred significantly – both physically and mentally – and they were far more physically fit than any school-going teenager had any reason to be. They were hard with muscle and browned from the sun, despite both having naturally fair complexions. Although Hermione had gained all of the curves of a woman, she was just a bit too skinny and a bit too firm to pass normal inspection, although under robes it wouldn't be quite as noticeable – she hoped. Draco's jaw was square and rough with stubble befitting a man, not a boy.

"And where are you originally from?" Dumbledore continued, folding his hands in his lap and leaning forward, giving her his full attention.

"England, Professor, though Draco was born in France and both of his parents were of French descent." _Lie._

"And your parents?" he prodded.

She frowned, not sure what exactly he was asking. "What about them, sir?"

"Have they passed on as well?" he asked, having picked up on the past tense with which she'd referred to Draco's parents.

She stiffened, her face hardening quickly with anger, before she forced herself to relax. After all, it was not _his_ fault that her parents were dead. It was hers.

And _Voldemort's._

"Yes," she confirmed, pushing the word out of her mouth as one might try to tug a stubborn mule out of a stall.

"I see. I'm sorry for your loss," he said, looking sad. She did not doubt that the words were said genuinely – after all, despite his many flaws, Dumbledore was still a compassionate soul. "And – I hate to ask, because to me it is unimportant, but I need to know for your own safety – are either of you Muggleborn?"

She nodded slowly. "I am," she confessed, albeit reluctantly. Proud of her heritage though she was, she doubted the wizarding community of 1944 saw it that way. Especially with Grindewald still at large, and with a young Voldemort _right here in this very school._ "Draco is a Pureblood, but not as 'pure' as those who consider themselves part of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight' – or any of that rubbish," she sneered quietly. _Lie_.

Dumbledore chuckled agreeably. "Quite right, Miss Granger – quite right," he said with amusement. "And – of course – do you wish to inflict harm upon this school or any of its inhabitants?"

"No, sir," she responded, even if her brain was screaming _Tom Riddle! Tom Riddle and his Knights of Walpurgis and his giant bloody basilisk!_

"I am glad to hear it, Hermione," he said, leaning forward, "although from the kindness in your eyes I can see that you are not the type of person that might enjoy hurting another." He smiled at her.

 _How wrong you are, Albus,_ she thought cynically. _If only you knew how many people I've killed. If only you knew how satisfying it was to watch Bellatrix Lestrange writhe in indescribable pain – how easy it was to condemn her to the slowest, most agonizing death I could think of._ Smartly, she remained silent – merely gave him a grateful smile. It hurt to know that once, he would have been right. That she had once been the person he had just labeled her as.

"And one more – I have to know for security purposes and, frankly, to satisfy my own curiosity – how did you come to arrive at Hogwarts, how did you bypass some of the best wards in the country, and where were you before you came here?"

"I don't know, sir," she admitted – truthfully, this time. "One minute we were in battle, at Hogwarts in my time, 2002, and the next we were here," she said. "If Fawkes could talk, I would recommend giving _him_ some veritaserum," she joked. "I can't tell you any more, though, Professor – like I said, I really need to get my bearings before I reveal any more information." She swallowed. "And some more rest wouldn't go amiss, either."

"And what am I to tell others, when they ask?" he inquired.

"There is a war going on in China," she said, leaning farther back against her pillows. "I figure we can tell people we went to Yanjiu. It's a small wizarding school outside of Aba in the Sichuan province of China. It was first attacked a couple of years ago, and then the Chinese Ministry came under attack – as far as I know, it is not a good situation over there. A lot of violence, and a lot of people at war. Very bloody, and compounded by muggle Japan's involvement with the Nazis and the war going on in the Pacific. We can claim that our parents moved over when we were children, or some such rubbish," she finished, waving her hand nonchalantly.

He seemed to ponder something for a moment, but then he nodded and stood, rising to tower over the end of her bed. His shadow stretched impossibly long, cast in stark relief against the bright sunset that flooded the room and reflected on the smooth marble floor.

"Also, before you go, if you wouldn't mind a quick Wizarding Oath between the two of us…I would very much appreciate it, sir," she said, pulling out her wand.

His mouth tightened, but he acquiesced, moving over to sit in the chair by her bedside. "The terms?"

"Simple," she replied, taking his hand. "I just need you to promise that you will not tell a _soul_ of what you have come to learn about Draco and me. Not even someone you trust implicitly. It's very important, Albus." She swirled her wand, and she felt the air tighten invisibly around their clasped hands.

"I promise," Albus said, nodding.

"Thank you," she said, the sentiment genuine. "It puts my mind at ease."

While not as binding as an Unbreakable Vow – a Wizarding Oath would not kill you if you rebelled against it, but it would certainly hurt, and their might be some unpredictable magical consequences; she'd heard of people losing some of their power and their ability to cast some spells – it still gave her comfort knowing that she didn't have to worry about anyone finding out and using it against her.

"I take my leave then, Miss Granger – "

"Call me Hermione, Professor Dumbledore, please," she interrupted with a smile as he once again stood up. "Miss Granger feels so dreadfully formal, and hearing you call me by my given name as you once did brings me comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable situation."

He chuckled, straightening his robes – a strangely mild navy color, compared to the glaringly bright robes she knew he was fond of – and patted her on the foot in a gesture that almost made her eyes water, it was so familiar. "Then I suppose I should let you call me Albus, my dear, as you already have – but only in private, mind you. It wouldn't do to give my students any designs of familiarity whilst in my classroom, you see. They are already terribly rude already."

She smiled fondly. He turned to leave. "I'll be back to check on you in the morning, dear – I'll have Madam Soranus bring you some dinner. Try to get some more rest, Hermione. And please know that you are safe here at Hogwarts, and you are welcome to stay as long as you like. Headmaster Dippet and I will sit down and discuss your options with you tomorrow, and then we will speak again whenever Mister Mallery wakes up."

"Thank you, Albus," she said as he left, genuinely grateful for his kindness…especially since she was trapped in this hell.

Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.

* * *

oooo

Albus Dumbledore walked briskly down the corridor towards the Great Hall for dinner, his stomach rumbling. His mind was buzzing with curiosity about Hogwarts' new acquisitions, Hermione Granger and Draco Mallery.

Professor Merrythought, having waited down the hall from the hospital wing, fell into step beside him. "What did you find out, Albus?"

He shook his head, frowning. "Not much, Galatea. They aren't a threat to the school, that much I am sure of."

"But?" she asked, sensing that there was more. The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had always known him better than the rest.

He sighed, preparing to lie to his friend. "They came from China. I wasn't able to get much more than that, other than basic information, but, judging from their condition and what little she told me, they undoubtedly have been in the midst of the war over there – though what two English wizards were doing in China, especially those of school age, I have no idea," he continued, leaving out the part about them moving to China as children until they were able to get some more details worked out. It wouldn't do to get the littlest bit of information wrong, only to have someone figure out that it was all one big falsehood. "Have you already eaten?" he asked her.

"Not yet," she replied. "Would you like to take dinner in my office?"

"You read my mind, Galatea," he replied. "Will you call on Tinker and have her put together two plates for us, and then go to the library and find as many books as you can on French wizarding genealogy? I'll meet you there in a few minutes," he said, veering off to the left toward the stairs. "I have a floo call to make to a good friend of mine in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. I have a few questions about the Orient that need answering."

* * *

oooo

China, eh? How curious.

Edmond Lestrange stepped out of the shadows, having hidden as soon as he'd seen the two professors barreling down the hall toward him. He tended to avoid interacting with the staff if he could, especially Dumbledore; the Transfiguration teacher and Deputy Headmaster watched all Slytherins a bit too closely for Edmond's liking – particularly those that had the most contact with Tom Riddle. Merrythought was not much better, despite how she often favored Tom in class because of his superior dueling skills.

Edmond was glad that he'd overheard this little tidbit of information, however – his Lord would be pleased with him. Anxious to impart what he'd learned, he hurried toward the Slytherin common room.

* * *

oooo

Hermione lay back on her bed as the moon rose high in the sky, tears rolling silently from her eyes. Her dinner tray was barely touched, though she had eaten some for the sake of showing her appreciation to the elderly (but surprisingly sprightly) matron that had so kindly brought it up for her.

Tears burned her cheeks, strangely hot. She brought her fingers up to touch them and then looked at the moisture on her fingertips, half expecting it to be red and steaming, like lava. The tears were clear as usual – there was no visual indication of their heat. But she knew that it had something to do with Fawkes and what he'd done to her.

She closed her eyes. _Fawkes?_ she called out in her mind.

There was no response. She sighed, feeling foolish, but couldn't help the sense of disappointment all the same. The only evidence she had that anything within her had changed was that constant burning heat inside her chest. Madam Soranus had also commented earlier that she had an unusually high fever, and gave her a potion to help reduce it. Somehow Hermione knew that it wouldn't help. She figured this fever was at least semi-permanent, although she had no idea how she would go about trying to expel the phoenix's presence from her body. And she had no idea how to feel about having such a powerful being's essence within her; would Fawkes' special magic do damage upon her own, or would the two join together? Would his presence drain her energy and weaken her internally, or would he lend her _his_ energy, making her stronger? Had the process physically changed her? She hadn't been able to look in a mirror since it had happened, though she was certain that she didn't look as frightful as she had upon arrival – she had been _Scourgified_ , though not bathed, and someone had changed her shorts and shirt to a thankfully blood free nightgown; her bra and panties remained untouched, and she was glad. She still felt the stickiness of blood in the hair at the nape of her neck and behind her ear, but for the most part she was in much better shape than she had been.

Swinging her legs out of her bed, she touched her bare feet to the floor, relishing the cold marble against the calloused, no doubt ashy skin of her soles. She stood, testing her balance, and stretched her muscles one by one, assessing how her wounds had healed and how much mobility she had. The burn on her back was still miserable – it seemed Madam Soranus hadn't been able to do much with it other than put a poultice on it, as the severity of the dark magic which had caused the burn (thanks ever so, Macnair) was unable to be fully healed magically. Otherwise, only her tender left wrist still ached. All of her other wounds had been attended to with great care and skill.

She walked the three yards between her bed and Draco's, looking down at his still form. His chest was bare, a puncture wound on his taut abdominal muscles mostly healed and plastered with gauze. White pajama bottoms dressed his lower half. She smiled. She could imagine his indignation at the thought of somebody else dressing him.

Pulling back the covers, she slipped into the narrow bed beside him, resting her head on his shoulder and carefully placing her arm over his broad, pale chest. Despite not having much room, his steady breathing lulled her to sleep in record time, and she slipped into the land of dreams – dreams that nearly always turned into nightmares.

oooo

* * *

 **Sorry guys, no Tom this chapter. We'll see him in the next one though. Like I said before, I tend to take things too fast, and I'm really trying to resist the urge with this one.**

 **Anyways, I hope you still enjoyed getting a little bit more of the foundation for the story, and I promise there will be more Hermione/Tom interaction in the chapters to come.**

 **Review if you feel so inclined!**

 **Giraffe :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Every night when I go to bed, I hope that I may never wake again, and every morning renews my grief. –Franz Schubert

Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars. –Khalil Gibran

* * *

oooo

 _She wakes up in the dark._

 _It is cold down here, in this place – wherever this place is – and she pulls her nightgown and robe more tightly around her, shifting on the hard stone floor and blinking rapidly until her eyes adjust to the darkness. She is on her back, still in her nightclothes, which are nearly soaked through with moisture. She tries to sit up, and it takes several attempts before she is successful. Turning her head this way and that to work out the kinks that have formed from sleeping on a cold, stone floor, she squints and pushes her loose, sticky hair from her face._

 _And then she remembers._

Hermione awoke at dawn to the soft stroking of her hair. She opened her eyes and looked up sleepily.

"Time to wake up, my dear," said Madam Soranus. "You need to take a few potions and I need to check on Mister Mallery – then you can go back to sleep, if you like."

Hermione obediently sat up in the bed she shared with Draco. "All right." Her voice was thick with sleep, but her senses were quickly sharpening. Living through years of conflict had made sure she knew how to keep her wits about her at all times, so she shook off her tiredness and soreness and was fully alert within half a minute. The hospital wing was quiet and empty, and she could hear the melodious chirping of the birds outside, heralding the dawn.

Out of habit she subtly sniffed each potion before she drank them, instinctively smelling for poison. It was stupid, she knew. Madam Soranus was a trained mediwitch and as such was probably very careful with those in her care.

Nonetheless, Hermione watched the older witch administer to Draco. She poured a couple of potions down his throat, magically induced him to swallow, rubbed an oily potion on his bare torso, and then began to cast a series of spells over his prone form.

Hermione cleared her throat, swinging her legs over the side of the bed to face them. "Can you tell me more about his condition and treatment?" she asked quietly, meeting the matron's blue eyes as she turned to look at her.

"Well, the primary concern, other than some superficial wounds, is the illness that has taken hold. It is affecting the health of his organs," the older woman said, still waving her wand.

Hermione nodded, sighing. "Dumbledore told me as much," she said. "He also told me that he wouldn't survive for very long."

The mediwitch looked surprised at her statement, apparently under the impression that Albus wouldn't have burdened her with this information so soon. "Well, yes…" she said hesitantly. "It's hard to tell, because I've never seen anything like it before. All I can really do is try to slow the progression of it and try to keep him comfortable in the mean time; the potions and spells I'm using are for pain and cell regeneration. However, I can only slow it down – I can't stop it. I'm very sorry, dear," she finished, looking stricken.

Hermione nodded, dry-eyed. The tears would come later, she expected – after the shock fully faded and she was alone. "Thank you, Madam," she replied. "I'm grateful for your skill and compassion." The woman's face softened further. "Albus seems to think that he will wake up – do you have any idea when that is likely to happen?"

Soranus sighed. "I can't be sure, dear. Could be a week. Could be a month. But I doubt that it will be less than two weeks. His body has been kept in excellent condition overall, but this spell has wreaked havoc. He is very weak, and this coma will let him get the healing that he needs. But I'm afraid, over time, he will continue to deteriorate."

"Can you give me any idea of how long?" Hermione asked.

The matron pursed her lips. "I'll have a better idea as I see the illness spread over the next few days, but I would venture to guess he has until the New Year, perhaps. That's the best I can do for now. It could be sooner, it could be later. But he will pass, Miss Granger, unless someone can come up with something to cure him."

Hermione nodded in response, vowing to research it as soon as she could make it to the library. "Will you promise to come find me _immediately_ after he wakes? No matter what I'm doing at the time. I want to be here."

"Of course," Madam Soranus replied. She left Draco's bedside, patting Hermione on the shoulder. Unused to physical contact with anyone except for her closest friends, Hermione tried not to flinch away. She had to put on an act, now. She would put herself in danger if she couldn't.

"Also Madam, do you mind if I used your bathroom facilities? I find I'm in desperate need of a shower. And is there any way I might borrow some clothes?" she asked, realizing that she didn't have any appropriate clothing to suit the 1940s style in her bag, except for a couple of muggle-style formal gowns and dresses that she might get away with.

Madam Soranus smiled, adjusting her bonnet. "There is a private lavatory in the corner over there," she replied, pointing. "And I think I might be able to work some clothing out, although there aren't many girls that are as skinny as you are, my dear. We might have to adjust some things."

"I have plenty of money, if needed," Hermione said. "I wouldn't want to impose on anyone."

"Oh, it's not a problem, Miss Granger," she said, waving her hand. "I'll send a house elf up with some bath supplies for you. I have to replenish my potions stores, but I'll be back in less than an hour. I'll send someone in to check on you in a few minutes, just to make sure you're all right."

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything. It is a privilege to have such a caring staff. It's something I've not seen in a long time."

Madam Soranus looked embarrassed and pleased with the praise, looking down at the floor and blushing. "I hope you can find a home here, Miss Granger. I assume you'll be staying here for a while, and I'm glad you feel welcome so far. We're very happy to have you, and we'll do everything we can for Mr. Mallery."

Hermione neglected to mention that she was _already_ home.

* * *

oooo

Hermione was twenty minutes into her luxurious bath, and was immensely enjoying a soak that she was long overdue for (apparently showers weren't as readily available, as they were still an up and coming invention in the wizarding world in the 1940s, much as they were in the muggle world). She was horrified that she had to change the bathwater twice, despite the _Scourgify_ she'd gotten the day before.

In the midst of rinsing her hair out from its second wash a knock sounded on the door. She squeaked in a very undignified manner, her hand automatically darting for her wand, only to realize that no, she _wasn't_ on a battlefield anymore. She rolled her eyes at herself; still, Mad Eye's voice reverberated through her skull: _Better safe than sorry!_ So she casually rested her hand next to her wand just in case.

"Come in," she said, sinking farther down below the bubbles. She wasn't very modest – after all, modesty had no place in the middle of a war when sharing rooms and tents with male and female comrades – but she still didn't like the idea of a complete stranger seeing her butt-naked in the bath.

The door opened to reveal a lovely girl in a prefect's badge that gleamed gold against black robes with crimson lining. Hermione visibly relaxed – Gryffindor was familiar to her, and she took some comfort in it; though it was no guarantee of a person's character; Peter Pettigrew's sneering visage flashed through her mind.

The girl was carrying a stack of clothes: a long-sleeved black wrap shirt with a very subtle rose pattern around the v-shaped neckline, a grey skirt that fell to the knees, a pair of black Oxford pumps in true 1940s fashion, and a set of hooded charcoal and black robes to wear over the top. The hood was lined with rabbit fur.

When the pretty brunette gently smiled at her, Hermione was instantly put at ease. She relaxed into the water. The approaching student was slender and lovely, with dark, lustrous hair that fell straight down her back to her waist. She was a bit taller than Hermione; with intense eyes the exact color of an Antarctic ice shelf. Her teeth were straight and white.

"Hi, Hermione, my name is Sabrina Snowborn. I was told to bring you clothes?" the girl said, gesturing to the things in her arms.

"Yes, thank you Sabrina," Hermione said in return. "It's very nice to meet you. Are these your clothes?" she asked as Sabrina set them down on the counter.

"Madam Soranus figured we might be about the same size," the girl responded, clasping her hands in front of her.

"I promise to get them right back to you as soon as I can get to Hogsmeade to buy some of my own," she replied. "I really appreciate you loaning them to me."

"Oh, it's no problem," Sabrina supplied, seeming to gain a little confidence in the light of Hermione's attitude. After all, she hadn't known what to expect, and Hermione suspected that she might have been intimidated by the prospect of meeting the new girl that yesterday had been covered in blood. The blood of her enemies more so than her own, she thought vindictively. If she had been Snowborn she might have been apprehensive, too. "I'm glad to see that you're up and about. I heard from my friend Lyall – he was there when Professor Dumbledore took you to the hospital wing yesterday – that you were something of a mess when you arrived. It's good that you've recovered some. Madam Soranus is something of a miracle worker."

Hermione gave her a soft smile, glad for the kindness. "She is. I'm thankful for her expertise. So I see from your uniform that you're a Gryffindor?"

"You're familiar with the houses?" Snowborn asked, surprised.

"I learned a little about Hogwarts over the years – I am originally from England, after all – and Dumbledore also gave me the rundown on things here," she said smoothly. What was another lie in the web of lies she would have to spin?

"Ah, I see," she other girl said, nodding. "I am the seventh year Gryffindor prefect, actually. Do you know what a prefect is?" she asked.

Hermione nodded. "More or less," she said with an internal smile. She had once been a prefect, after all. "An officer of sorts, yes? Tell me Sabrina, would you be available to show me around the school and get me acquainted with the students? I would go with Professor Dumbledore, of course, but professors often don't know as much about the social ladder as students do." She winked at the other girl. "Do you think you have time today?"

Sabrina grinned. "Of course! I actually have both of my morning periods free today, so I have plenty of time to give you the scoop on things. Shall I wait outside while you finish your bath, or do you need assistance with anything in here?"

Hermione smiled. "No, I'm fine, thank you. I'll just pop out there when I'm done and we can be on our merry way."

With a cheery "Alright!" Sabrina left the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Hermione sighed and went about finishing her bath, wincing once again at the feel of the hot water on her burned back.

When she drained the tub and stepped out (not without some groaning; she felt like she'd been hit by the Knight Bus) she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and gasped.

Despite her still haggard appearance (baths could only get you so far, after all), Hermione was somehow…different…than she had been before. Her eyes, having been a steady, unchanging brown all of her life, were bright with shades of umber and black and gold, the whites of her eyes more white than usual and contrasting acutely against her irises. It wasn't as if her eyes had been boring, before; she'd liked them, found them to be earnest and expressive, and they'd fit within her face just right. But now they were sharper, even more intelligent, if possible, and were unnerving in their intensity. Her hair, before a medium shade of brown that was as common as her eyes had been, had subtly changed as well, becoming, like her eyes, more complex, smoother, curlier and less frizzy. Her skin remained the same shade, a fair golden tone with smatterings of light freckles that graced her nose and shoulders – but it seemed to glow with an inner light. As she watched, she noticed a quick ripple of orange light pulse throughout her body, as gone as quickly as it had come. She felt the effects down to her bones, and it yet again was an uncomfortable reminder that she was harboring another being in her body.

She wondered what else had changed as a result of Fawkes' presence; she wondered if her magic had changed, and if it would respond as well to Bellatrix's old wand. She wondered if her patronus would still be a lion. She wondered if her core magic would still be the same, and if she would still have great skill in wandless and nonverbal magic.

She had so many questions; too bad the only being that could answer them couldn't actually _speak._

Her wounds from the battle were ugly, though mostly healed now. They fit right in with her array of scars. Her torso was an angry array of colors; looking at them, she knew that she had broken her ribs, and that they would continue to bruise colorfully over the next few days, despite the mediwitch's attention. The burn on her back was horrendously bad, and, before she dressed, she placed a clean sheet of gauze that Soranus had left for her on top of its oozing presence. She secured it with magic.

She dressed and dried her hair with a wave of her wand – she was right, it _did_ feel different now; something about her magic was responding strangely to Bellatrix's old wand – forgoing any glamour charms despite the bruising on her face and the split lip. She tucked her shrunken purple bag back into her newly cleaned bra (courtesy of the Hogwarts house elves, she was sure). She had to adjust the shoes, for she had very small feet, but they were comfortable once she put them on. The clothing hung a little bit on her frame – Sabrina, though naturally slender, had not spent the last few months half-starved and constantly doing something physical, and therefore she had a little less muscle and a little more meat on her bones. Maybe, just maybe, Hermione could fill out a bit more now that she was in Hogwarts and had access to a regular source of food. It might be nice to get back to the healthy weight she'd been before they'd been ousted from Grimmauld Place and forced to live in tents.

Finished, marveling at how nice her hair and skin looked, she stepped out of the bathroom and saw Sabrina sitting on the hospital bed on the far side of Draco. "Are you ready, Snowborn?" Hermione asked kindly. It was now almost nine o'clock; she had lost track of time in the bath.

Sabrina jumped up enthusiastically. "Let's go!" she said. She led Hermione to the doors, and they stepped out into a peaceful Hogwarts Hermione hadn't seen in six years.

She listened with half an ear while Sabrina led her down corridors and through rooms, as Hermione knew everything there was to know about the castle; she would venture to guess she knew most of its secrets, too, although she was sure Hogwarts had quite a few things up its proverbial sleeve that she wasn't aware of.

She did not, however, know anything about any of the students here, with one exception…although she didn't know a whole lot about Tom's Hogwarts days besides what she had learned about his involvement with the Chamber of Secrets in his fifth year and knowing that he'd spent the summer before his seventh year killing his family and creating a second horcrux. The thought of it made her shiver. She also knew that he was supposedly incredibly charming, and had many professors and students in his pocket. And she knew that his group of original Death Eaters, or rather his Knights of Walpurgis at this stage, had already been formed.

Therefore, she listened very carefully when Sabrina gave her the lowdown on the students of Hogwarts. When students were pointed out to her in the hallways, she committed their faces and names to her memory. Snowborn was apparently something of a social butterfly, obviously well liked and well known by her peers. Out of habit, Hermione paid extra attention to the Slytherins that were mentioned.

Sabrina waved at a trio of people coming down the hallway towards them, and Hermione stopped with her guide. Two boys and a girl came to stand in front of them.

Her sweet guide pulled Hermione forward, and, once again, she struggled not to wriggle away and draw her wand on the woman. She remained perfectly still, and thankfully the girl drew her hands away and Hermione was able to relax.

"This is Hermione Granger, our newest transfer," Sabrina said, and the handsome brunette boy in Gryffindor robes trained his sharp blue eyes on Hermione. This was the man that had helped levitate Draco's body into the hospital wing. He wore a prefect badge that matched Sabrina's.

"I'm Lyall Lupin," he said, sticking his hand out. She took it, somewhat in shock from his name and his relation to her old friend (this was Remus' father! How surreal!), and his hands were delightfully cool. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Hermione. You look a sight better than you did yesterday, that's for sure."

Hermione's lips quirked. "I imagine so, Mr. Lupin. It's nice to meet a new friend."

The girl in Ravenclaw attire was the same one that had helped her get to the infirmary yesterday morning. She was a hefty and big-boned woman, but certainly not fat. She had a wide, pleasant face and hair the color of straw. She had more freckles than Hermione, but less than Ginny.

"Bertha Higgs," she said, shaking Hermione's hand in the same manner. "I'm one of the seventh year Ravenclaw prefects, and if you ever need anything just let me know. I'm tall enough that you can usually see me in a crowd," she joked, smiling at Hermione.

She grinned in return. "I'll keep that in mind, Higgs. Thank you."

She turned to the third figure, taller than the rest. "I'm Ignatius Prewett," he said, reaching for her hand. "Nice to meet you."

Hermione shook his hand mindlessly, stunned. While she could see little resemblance between Lyall Lupin and his son, looking at Ignatius Prewett was like looking into the face of Molly, Fred and George Weasley. He even resembled Ron a little, with a sprinkling of freckles across his long nose. His eyes were Molly's eyes – and Ginny's eyes. Hazel rimmed in gold.

"It's very nice to meet you," she said numbly, seemingly in a daze. She let go of his hand as quickly as was socially acceptable and turned to Sabrina. "Do you mind directing me to the nearest bathroom?" she said, trying to hide the slight shake of her hands by clasping them together. "I need to use the loo, and I also would like to check the bandages on my back."

Sabrina frown but gestured to her left. "There's a small co-ed bathroom around that corner – is everything all right? Do you want me to come with you?"

Hermione smiled but shook her head. "I'll be right back. I just need a moment."

As she turned the corner she could hear a few muffled words, and then she slipped into the co-ed bathroom that she had used many a time during her schooling. She closed the door and leaned up against it, closing her eyes and breathing heavily, struggling to keep her tears from falling.

It was three years, today, since Ron, Ginny, Seamus and Fleur had died. It reminded her that today was her twenty-third birthday. It had since become a day of mourning, not one of celebration. The entire Order of the Phoenix had taken to ignoring her birthday for that very reason; it reminded them of what had happened on that day – September 19, 1999. It reminded them of what was so obviously missing.

But they hadn't been there. They had not seen what she had seen. They hadn't been cursed with the imagery that haunted her dreams every night. Of course they mourned, and they cried, and they wept with love for Ron and Ginny and Fleur and Seamus, missing them. But they did not _know._

And they would _never_ know. Those memories were her burden to bear. Not Harry's, not Draco's, not Arthur's or Charlie's or Pansy's. They were hers, and hers alone.

 _They would never know._

Shaking the horrible memories from her head and steeling her resolve, she approached the mirror, again preparing to check her ribs and back, just in case. She had broken her ribs and they had all been repaired, but she still had a nice gash that ran horizontal across her torso, curving under her right breast and crisscrossing the scar that Dolohov had given her in the Department of Mysteries so long ago. As she shed her robes and pulled up her shirt, she saw that it was red and angry, now glistening with fresh blood where it had cracked open.

"Shit," she said, dabbing at it with a finger. "Well that's just _fantastic."_

" _Ahem."_

She shrieked and opened her eyes, her brown gaze jumping to the solitary figure in the mirror that had come to stand behind her. She should have been paying attention! Out of habit she cast a silent, wandless _Expelliarmus,_ and a long, pale wand twitched in the hand that held it before the spell was blocked. Unfazed, she grabbed her wand from where it had been tucked into the back of her skirt and pointed it at the lone figure. She met his eyes, and almost dropped the crooked twig of walnut and dragon heartstring.

Those eyes. Hauntingly and horribly familiar. Because even though Voldemort's eyes had been red during her lifetime, and young Tom Riddle's eyes were deep and dark, there was a familiar spark of cruelty that resonated within her – a flinty gleam that both the past and future Dark Lord shared.

"Ouch," he said simply, pointing at the wounds on her torso. If he was surprised by her show of magic, it did not show on his perfect porcelain face, though she thought she saw his eyes flash with something that could have been anger.

She relaxed, but stowed her wand up her sleeve, ready to draw it at a moment's notice. She turned back to the mirror to continue to inspect her injuries. It occurred to her that she might not want to be so comfortable in Tom Riddle's presence, but at the same time she could not let him see that he affected her. That could turn out to be deadly. She was supposed to not know anything about him, and showing any sort of suspicion beyond the normal stranger-danger wariness would tip him off. As such, she forced herself to stay cool.

"Indeed. Lots of pretty colors, though," she said in response, muttering a healing spell to re-close the gash.

She saw his slight smile in the mirror. He hummed in agreement. "Very festive."

This made her chuckle – it was genuine amusement, to her surprise. "My very own private fireworks show," she remarked. She was just as amused by the fact that she was joking around with _Lord Voldemort_ as she was by the humorous comments themselves. Honestly, she was trying to stay under his radar, and apparently failing. She straightened her clothes and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry I tried to disarm you." she apologized. She was torn between being genuinely shameful of her actions and the sudden urge to kill him mercilessly on the spot. It was a close call, but she decided to put her anger away for now, and focused on being present in the moment. "You startled me." She winced. She was still primed for war, stuck in a place of peace, and it was not an easy transition. "I didn't realize someone was in here, before I came barging in – so I'll just be going now – "

He stepped forward, and she resisted the urge to a) flee like a traumatized rabbit and b) hit him in the face with a _Confringo_ and watch as he blew into a million fiery pieces. Instead she took a step back, but remained facing him.

"We never got the chance to be properly introduced," he said, his voice sliding over her like the finest silk. "You passed out before we could shake hands." He stuck out his hand. "Tom Riddle, Head Boy."

She took his hand hesitantly and felt her heart rate kick up, blood pumping wildly through her veins. She felt hot. Suddenly she could feel Fawkes' presence more strongly than before. It did not hurt, this time – just made her feel like she was immersed in water that was just a tad bit too hot to be comfortable.

"Hermione," she replied, relieved that her voice, whilst soft, was steady.

"And does Hermione have a last name to go with the first? Hermione, Queen of Sicily, or Hermione of Sparta? Or is it something a bit simpler? I've never been good at guessing games, I admit." His handsome mouth quirked into a smile, his eyes shining with equal parts curiosity and derision.

She felt embarrassed. Her cheeks heated, and she gritted her teeth. She had faced far worse than this teenage Tom Riddle – only a shadow of the terrifying Lord Voldemort she knew. She had fought worse, and won. She could not let his presence affect her so much.

She raised an eyebrow imperiously, squeezed his hand lightly, and then let it go, stepping back. "Hermione Granger," she offered. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Riddle – "

"Please, call me Tom," he interrupted.

"Tom," she said reluctantly, somewhat surprised at the request. "It's been nice to officially meet you. I'm glad I was able to make it through this time without collapsing." She smirked softly. Wait…was that humor she heard in her voice? Damn it, Hermione! The smile disappeared, shifting into the best impersonation of Draco that she could manage. She'd gotten quite good at it, she thought, over the years. "However, I must be going," she continued. "I left my companions waiting around the corner, and I have to get back. Sorry for intruding on your…activities," she finished, waving her hand nonchalantly towards the bathroom stalls. She was sure her smirk showed in her eyes if nowhere else. She turned to go, her hand on the doorknob. She turned it.

"And will I be seeing you again, Miss Hermione Granger?" he asked, his eyes boring into the back of her head.

She twisted her neck around to give him a measured look. "It is likely," she said, nodding. "Draco and I will be staying for a while, it seems." She paused, and then opened the door. "Enjoy your day, Mr. Riddle – _Tom_ ," she corrected.

She was not afraid of a seventeen-year-old Lord Voldemort. And she would eat him alive if he tried anything with her or her best friend – she vowed it. Perhaps she was in danger here, in this time, with him in the castle…but he was in danger, too. For she knew so many of his secrets, and she would turn them against him in a way that would completely blindside him.

Before he could reply, she was gone, as swift as the wind and just as quiet. Shivering, she returned to her new friends, the only somewhat sure thing she had in this place. She wished Draco were with her. He meant safety. He always made sure she could keep her head clear and straight. She smiled at her three new companions, actively trying to make herself look at Ron's great uncle without flinching.

"We were just headed down to the kitchens," Lyall said easily, his hands in his pockets. "Would you care to join us? I figure you might not want to endure the hectic mob that lunch in the Great Hall sometimes turns into." Ah, so someone else knew the secret of the ticklish pear.

She nodded her assent, and Lyall tucked Hermione's hand into the crook of his arm (she wasn't overly bothered by it this time, as she needed the comfort of another body next to her after her little soiree with Riddle). They walked downward towards the dungeons, chatting amiably about this and that and the other. _"Blimey, Dumbledore is allowing you to have your own suite until you get sorted? Lucky!" "I heard you came from China – what part?" "Will you be enrolled in school here, do you think? What house do you think you'll be in?"_ Hermione listened with half an ear.

She flexed her hand and wiped it on her old-fashioned dress. She could still feel Riddle's hand, cool, dry and callused, against her own. She remembered the way that Fawkes, still trapped inside her weary body, had reacted to his presence. It had not been negative, just strong. Strong and conflicted, and, strangely enough, curious.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw no one. But she swore she could feel cold, dark eyes at her back as she walked and she shuddered, unnerved.

Those eyes haunted her mind for the rest of the day.

* * *

oooo

Tom flushed the toilet and buttoned his fly, eager to get back to his studies. He had only encountered a handful of school subjects that ever gave him any trouble, and this newest project in Transfiguration was irritatingly difficult. Apparently turning a very small inanimate object into a very large living thing took a lot more power and concentration than other kinds of transfiguration. So converting a knut into a horse was proving to be particularly difficult. Right as he opened his stall door, he nearly jumped a foot in the air. He drew his wand instead.

 _BANG!_

Tom started, looking up as the door to the empty lavatory he inhabited swung open and cracked loudly against the wall. The person responsible closed it just as quickly, and then leant back upon it, breathing heavily.

He remained silent, content to just watch. It was that girl again – the one who had leaned upon him on her way to the hospital wing yesterday morning, covered in blood and dirt. The one riddled with scars, whose deep, dark eyes had seemed to cut him down to the bone. He remembered, yesterday, the nonchalance with which she answered his question: _"What happened?" "Werewolf – albeit in human form. After that, infection."_ He recalled the uttered explicative she had let loose as he had attempted to heal her badly broken wrist, remembered his surprise as the word "fuck" left her mouth in an unladylike snarl; remembered the burning hot glare he had received as he'd taunted her about it.

She was garbed in proper clothing now – a shirt and skirt and two-toned robes open in the front. Her heaving bosom swelled modestly over the v-neck of the wrap blouse – a popular style these days with wizarding women. Her legs were bare and her small feet were tucked into a pair of simple black Oxfords with a modest heel. Her hair was loose, and slightly damp at the ends, falling around her shoulders and down her back in riotous curls that were somehow very becoming. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, and the expression upon her face was one of deep grief, her mouth twisted into a grimace of pain.

He watched her, for a moment – took the time to observe her unabashedly, without the constraints of having her aware of his presence. Her expression was open, unguarded; innocent and beautiful, and yet fraught with a sorrow beyond her years. He spotted a scar, high upon her cheek, like a silver thread on a tapestry of gold. Her parted lips were moist and pink and still swollen from where she had been hit across the face. Her eyelashes were long and jet-black, free of mascara, casting soft shadows against the tops of her cheeks.

She really was quite lovely, he mused. Sometimes, when he was at his most distracted, he found himself looking at women, judging them. Most of them he found plain, and those that he thought to be pretty tended to annoy him. They all simpered and smiled and whined and batted their eyelashes at him, hoping to endear themselves to him. In keeping with his gentlemanly façade, he only ever smiled and, as gently as possible, rebuffed their advances. In reality he longed to sneer at them and turn his back. How he wished he could ignore them without seeming like an utter arse!

However, he would never hit a woman. He might torture one, or verbally insult one, or kill one. But hitting a woman was somehow baser, meaner – and a demonstration of how men were physically stronger. It was so… _muggle._ And so seeing the dark, swollen spot on the girl's lip and the bruise on her jaw incited an irrational surge of anger and contempt. She was a witch, and someone had slapped her across the face like a common brute.

He didn't like it.

He liked it less when she threw off her robes and indecently lifted up her shirt to reveal a mottled bunch of bruises, a fresh, ugly slash across her thin torso, and a long, dark scar that ran from beneath her right breast (concealed by a very curiously cut beige brassiere; he was aware that women's lingerie was getting more risqué as time passed, but he had not heard of anything that looked quite like the undergarment she was wearing, even if he could only see the bottom part of one of the cups) to her left hip. She bit her lip as she touched a finger to the newly bleeding cut over her ribs, but to his surprise remained dry-eyed and relatively stoic. Once again, he was amused at her choice of language as she cursed, and appreciated her sarcasm when she said, "Well, that's just _fantastic."_

Tom decided that it was time to announce his presence. He cleared his throat.

What he did not expect was the cracked scream of surprise and the sudden flash of scarlet light that had him immediately throwing up a hasty shield, glad that he had his wand in his hand. A film of hot, heavy magic settled in the air before it rapidly disappeared. She had whirled around almost inhumanly fast, and had merely _reached out_ with her left _hand_ and his wand had twitched towards her like it had never belonged with him to begin with – as if its proper place was in her outstretched fist.

He didn't want to admit it, but this girl had come closer to disarming him than anyone ever had.

Fury swept through him as he found himself suddenly at the end of her wand. How dare this girl presume to disarm him! In _his_ castle, nonetheless, after having barged into an occupied lavatory without thought or care!

As he met her eyes, though, he hesitated. His fury drained into a feeling of extreme annoyance, which was, at the same time, tinged with curiosity and perhaps a little surprise. Her hair was crackling with magic, her eyes alive and ablaze with power – and utter, unmistakable _fear,_ which dissipated as she calmed.

This realization quelled his anger a bit. He'd caught her off guard, and she had merely reacted, startled and afraid. Her reaction was definitely intriguing, however. Not many people, presumably within his age range, had such sharp instincts and could wield wandless, nonverbal magic so flawlessly. It just served to further confirm the information that Edmond had overheard – that she and her companion had been at war in China. And yet she was undoubtedly English, and could not have been much older than he, if at all. Tom wasn't entirely aware of the situation over in Asia – it did not really apply to him, after all – but was now sufficiently interested. How was it that a seemingly teenage girl had been in the midst of a bloody _war?_

Attempting to dispel the tension in the air, he looked back down at her bared torso. "Ouch," he said, raising his eyebrows but keeping his face carefully neutral.

Her wand remained gripped tightly in her hand, but she visibly relaxed and turned back to the mirror. He twirled his own wand between his fingers, relishing the feel of it in his hand – humiliated and _angry_ that it had been almost taken from him in the first place – and tucked it into his pocket in a show of uncharacteristic faith. As he had suspected, however, after a few seconds she stowed her wand, although it was so quick that he did not see where she put it.

He remained silent, one eyebrow raised. As easy as breathing, he slipped back into the cool mind of Lord Voldemort – leaving the inquisitive, slightly more lenient Tom Riddle, Jr., more prone to have _feelings,_ behind. He stared at her, unblinking.

"Indeed," she said, her voice a slow, deliberate intonation. "Lots of pretty colors, though."

He almost laughed out loud, but he contained his amusement, merely smirking in response. "Very festive," he returned, enjoying the nonchalance with which she spoke and moved. He enjoyed the view of so much of her skin on display, as well; although his self-control was so impeccable he did not let it affect him. He had no time or energy for such things. Although he had experimented a handful of times – Primrose Selwyn was more than happy to oblige him, and she was conveniently easy to _Obliviate_ afterwards so that she didn't get the impression that there was anything _between_ them, the stupid cow – he generally operated under the belief that sex was an annoying distraction, and something that he was above. The body had needs, though. His body was no exception. Besides, his was a naturally curious mind.

Her grin was lightning fast and equally as striking, and he felt uncharacteristically proud when he drew a chuckle from her. So apparently the Lord Voldemort side of his personality was on holiday. He'd have to make do with his weaker persona, for now.

"My very own private fireworks show," she remarked, and winced as she muttered a spell to close up the weeping scrape on her ribs. She turned again, catching his gaze. "I'm sorry I tried to disarm you," she said, catching him off-guard with her apology. "You startled me. I didn't realize someone was in here, before I came barging in – so I'll just be going now – "

He stepped forward, and noticed how her wand hand twitched. She took a step back, her eyes reflecting wariness.

"We never got the chance to be properly introduced," he crooned, trying to put her at ease with the smooth tone of his voice. It usually had that effect. Irritatingly, she showed no signs of relaxation. "You passed out before we could shake hands." He stuck out his hand. "Tom Riddle, Head Boy."

When she finally, cautiously grabbed his hand, shaking it, he watched, captivated, as her dark eyes flashed gold for a split second. Her hand settled into his, and the skin of her palm seared his for just a moment, as if he had dunked his hand into a cauldron of too-hot water. He almost expected steam to rise from where their skin met.

Tom would have thought he was imagining things, it had happened so fast – that the orange-gold flash of her bright eyes and the crackling of her hair and the hot flush of her skin on his were mere tricks of his imagination. Except, Tom Riddle did not imagine things. And he was never, ever wrong.

"Hermione," she said, her voice low and steady. Her hand still grasped his, warm but no longer hot.

"And does Hermione have a last name to go with the first?" he asked mockingly, his mouth quirking up. He relished the spots of color that bloomed high on her cheeks. "Hermione, Queen of Sicily, or Hermione of Sparta? Or is it something a bit simpler? I've never been good at guessing games, I admit."

Her eyes hardened with determination and – could it be? – a hint of scorn to match his own. "Hermione Granger," she said, her voice slightly acidic. She squeezed his hand and then released it, soft skin sliding over his own. A callus on the inside of her pointer finger grazed against his palm. From a wand, or a quill, or both, he didn't know. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Riddle – "

"Please, call me Tom."

It was said without thought, as if some part of his brain, rising up in rebellion, pushed the words up his throat and through his mouth without his permission. _No one_ called him Tom, except, on occasion, for his closest followers – in public, when they couldn't call him "My Lord" without drawing suspicious and aghast glances. Dumbledore still called him Tom, probably knowing that it got under his skin. Sometimes girls would call him Tom, hoping for illusions of closeness that they did not have; he generally discouraged this, sometimes using subtle hints of Legilimency that would make them feel as though they had somehow crossed a line – with a smile on his face all the while. But he had never really given anyone express permission to call him Tom. He was Lord Voldemort, or Riddle, or My Lord. He was not _Tom._

What had he been thinking?

"Tom," she repeated, and, though it seemed to be pushed from between her lips with a certain level of resistance, it sounded beautiful, complex… _different,_ in her penetrating, lilting voice. It was _pleasant._ "It's been nice to officially meet you," she continued, tilting her head of curly hair towards him. "I'm glad I was able to make it through this time without collapsing." She smirked, and he found his own lips turning up at the corners. Then the smile slid from her features, her warm, multifaceted eyes grew hard and empty, and her face smoothed into an expression worthy of any Slytherin – one of affected boredom, indifference, and coolness. She cleared her throat. "However, I must be going," she said, backing away from him. "I left my companions waiting around the corner, and I must get back. Sorry for intruding on your…activities." Her eyes lit up with a dark, secret humor that made his previous irritation flare up again. She turned to go, her graceful left hand, with a small, white scar across the back, resting on the doorknob.

"And will I be seeing you again, Miss Hermione Granger?" He said it almost hastily, out of a desire to see her face once again. He clenched his teeth. He was merely curious about her, was all. The ease with which she had almost disarmed him, the varied expressions that flitted across her face…the many, many colors in her brown eyes, and how they had flashed orange. The heat of her skin.

That head of shiny brown hair swiveled, and she gave him a long, calculating look that very suddenly and unexpectedly sent every synapse in his brain whirring. _Danger! Danger! Danger!_ His eyes sharpened on hers, and he tried to ignore the warning bells that had suddenly gone off in his head.

"It is likely," she said finally, in a slow, honeyed drawl that resonated inside his spinning head. "Draco and I will be staying for a while, it seems." She gave him the barest hint of a smile. "Enjoy your day, Mr. Riddle – _Tom_."

With a soft _whoosh_ of air she was gone, and the door shut quietly, unassumingly, behind her. He stared at it. Her unsettling eyes remained imprinted on his mind, staring at him, full of fear, grief, anger, calculation and sharp, terrifying intelligence.

Curiosity, he told himself. He sat down on the chair in the corner, forcing himself not to follow her. He was merely curious.

He tried not to think about the sudden anxiety that leapt into his brain as she had turned those eyes on him one final time. Because the only other time he'd felt that way had been while staring into the eyes of his basilisk for the first time.

Despite the initial fear and pain he had seen in her gaze – that emotion that had so enraptured him to begin with – that last look had been calculating, measuring, cunning.

Dangerous.

Predatory.

And _filled_ with a certain kind of recognition that made absolutely no sense.

oooo

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think of their first official meeting.**

 **Btw, I'm so excited about chapter 8 and 9 it's not even funny. I love the tension that develops between the two. I can't wait for you to read it.**

 **Giraffe :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Yes, I am aware that I updated twice in one week – however, my motives are not wholly altruistic. This is a bribe.**

 **I'm really pretty bummed that I'm not getting more reviews. I know it's early in the story, and I know I'm not the greatest writer ever, but if you can take the time to press the favorite or the follow button on the screen then _SURELY_ you can at least drop a smiley face or something in the review box. Please? Pretty please? I don't expect a well-written critique or anything like that. Like I said, a smiley face (or frowny face, depending on how you feel about the chapter) will do just fine.**

 **So our little cliché sorting scene is in this chapter, but you will be seeing it from Tom's perspective, not Hermione's. Don't worry, I will let you in on some of the hat's commentary later on in the story. Just snippets, mind you. It seems like every time-travel story I read includes some sort of epic monologue by the gleefully enigmatic sorting hat saying things like _"Oh, a time-traveler, eh? Yes yes, I put you in Gryffindor before. But you've changed, haven't you? You don't belong there anymore…"_ Blah blah blah. Yeah. I'm not going to do that. I just don't really have the energy, to be honest.**

 **Thanks guys! And a special thank you to those who _do_ take the time to review!**

* * *

oooo

By three methods we may learn wisdom: first, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest. –Confucius

I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity. –Dwight D. Eisenhower

If I could face them  
If I could make amends  
With all my shadows  
I'd bow my head  
And welcome them  
But I feel it burning  
Like when the winter wind  
Stops my breathing

\- "I of the Storm" by Of Monsters and Men

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oooo

 _Monday, December 14, 1998_

 _Number 12 Grimmauld Place_

 _It is early, early morning when the doorbell rings, and both Hermione and Ron, whose senses have been honed by a year of war and terror, are up and out of bed in an instant, along with probably half of the residents of Grimmauld Place. She hears Harry's door bang open and the three of them, plus Ginny, Arthur, and Kingsley, are down the stairs in seconds. Mad-Eye bursts through the kitchen door, wand flourished, followed quickly by Fred. In a routine practiced hundreds of times, Ron grasps the doorknob and throws open the door, wand in hand. What awaits them on the other side has them all holding a collective breath._

 _Pansy Parkinson stands on the front stoop, looking paler than ever. Her shiny black hair is pulled back into a hasty ponytail, and her blue eyes look dazed. She struggles to support a beaten, bloodied Draco Malfoy, whose eyes are half-closed and who looks to be suffering the after-effects of the Cruciatus – something that Hermione, as well as others, are far too familiar with at this point._

" _Crumple-horned snorkack," Malfoy says deliriously, spitting out the code word as if his life depends on it (which it probably does). Pansy looks to be holding back tears, and shifts his weight. Before she has the chance to drop him, George Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt are there to take his weight, lifting his tall, lithe form inside. Ron makes a noise in the back of his throat – one of restraint, she thinks, and is proud of him – and ushers Pansy inside, quickly scanning the street for any potential threats, before closing the door behind him._

 _As Draco is carried into the room they have designated as a medical ward, the pretty dark-haired girl turns to face Hermione and Ron and speaks, her voice small. "I made sure to apparate right onto the top landing, like Draco said. Narcissa is right behind us," she says. "Our cover was blown wide open." Her voice hitches. "I was careless, and because of me Blaise could be dead, or worse, and Draco might die, and – and – "_

 _Hermione holds up a hand and Pansy stills instantly, tears spilling from eyes the color of raw cobalt. "Parkinson, it isn't your fault. In situations like these, in a war like this, things happen. Whatever you think you did, however careless you may have been, it was an accident and you can't allow yourself to wallow in the guilt. We all make mistakes. All of us are guilty a thousand times over. Now, before I sit you down and make you a cup of tea, I need to verify your identity with a security question. Do you understand?"_

 _Pansy nods, still shaking like a leaf._

" _What did you tell me about my knitting for the house elves in fourth year?"_

 _Pansy smiles tremulously. "I was the one who told you that Dobby was the only one who would take all your hats and scarves – stacks at a time. And I told you how stupid you were for not realizing it and naively thinking that you were making a difference, and how the elves were more terrified of you than any master they could ever have." She looks down, staring at her impeccably polished boots, covered in a light dusting of snow. "How terribly mean of me."_

 _Hermione smiles and, with a hand on the former Slytherin's elbow, guides her back into the kitchen. "It was a hard truth, one I would've learned eventually. All water under the bridge, wouldn't you say? Now," she begins, sitting Pansy down and starting up a kettle. "I need you to tell me everything."_

 _She is surprised at all she learns – that Draco, Zabini, Pansy and Lady Malfoy have all been working with the late Severus Snape as spies for the Order, taking over the clandestine operations in lieu of the man's untimely death a few months ago. She also learns that, despite their cover having been blown, they still have a man on the inside, but Pansy will not reveal his identity for his own protection. It is hard to adjust – knowing that these people, who she'd thought so selfish and dishonorable for all these years, have risked everything to do the right thing._

 _It just goes to show Hermione that she, in all of her knowledge and experience and wisdom, does not know everything._

* * *

oooo

"Merlin, Malfoy, what are we going to do about him!?"

Hermione was back in the hospital wing, sitting at Draco's bedside, talking to him even though she knew he couldn't talk back.

She sighed, rubbing her temples with her fingers. She'd felt all right earlier today: talking with Madam Soranus, walking with Snowborn, having lunch in the kitchens with Ignatius, Lyall, Sabrina and Bertha (whose twin brother was named Bertie – unfortunate). The four of them had been delightful company, and had even taken her mind off her current situation; even if she had been forced to come up with lie after lie to substantiate her story. After they had taken their leave – _"It was so nice to meet you Hermione – I hope you get sorted into Ravenclaw!" "Not bloody likely – this one is definitely Gryffindor material." "We'll see you at dinner!"_ – Hermione had darted back up to the hospital wing, eager to be in Draco's comforting presence after her meeting with Tom Riddle a couple of hours earlier.

She wasn't feeling quite as good now; fatigue had settled deep in her bones, and her muscles and skin were on fire wherever she had wounds. She sipped at a hot mug of tea that one of the elves, Muffin, had made for her.

"He's bloody _evil,_ Draco," she continued, whispering into his ear as she set her head down on the bed next to his. "Every time I look at him I get chills, and I feel like something _slimy_ has just slithered over my body. He _disgusts_ me. And yet…"

She hesitated, frowning. Absentmindedly she ran a hand over his candy-floss hair, cleaning it with a softly spoken spell. She knew he would want it to be clean.

"And yet…he's _fascinating,_ Draco. And bloody gorgeous, though even saying that out loud makes me want to beat my head against the wall in embarrassment and shame. I can't read him. My brain is all over the place when I'm in his presence – and I've only seen him twice so far. How am I going to do this for – for – for however long we're stuck in this godforsaken place?" She looked down at her toes. She was barefoot, her shoes kicked off a while back. Her close cut toenails were a pale, bright turquoise; but the polish was peeled in places, chipped off with the effects of time and wear. She felt her hair crackle around her, and her heart warmed uncomfortably in her chest – she could still feel the echo of another heartbeat, drumming along inside her ribcage.

"I'm sure I came off as some bipolar _nut job_ talking to him today, hot one minute and cold the next – and I tried to disarm him, Malfoy…I almost bloody disarmed him!" she continued, her voice getting hysterical. "I nearly disarmed Lord Voldemort! Fuck, he's going to kill me!" She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, groaning. "I know that we're probably evenly matched at this point in his life, and that I have more experience than he does in many things," she continued, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. "But he's still a force to be reckoned with, and all I can think about when I see him is how monstrous he will eventually become."

And she would have to handle it all by herself, because Draco was dying, and she was not. He would cross over, and she would remain behind, mourning the loss of every friend she had ever had.

She would be inescapably alone, doomed to a life of grief and pain and fear and uncertainty. Stuck in the past, unable to escape the future that she knew would unfold.

She was reminded of a quote she had read once, by C.S. Lewis – one of her favorite authors. _No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear._

Of course, he had had every chance to kill her in that bathroom. As soon as she turned her back, he could have killed her and destroyed all evidence of her body.

Then she remembered that Tom Riddle wouldn't dare to kill anyone here at Hogwarts – he already nearly shut down the school once and was almost sent back to that orphanage forever, after Myrtle Warren's death. He wouldn't risk doing it again. That basilisk was confined to the Chamber and the school pipes for good – until 1992, that is – and Riddle knew he was being watched. Dumbledore had never believed that it was Hagrid who opened the Chamber of Secrets a year and a half ago. He had always suspected Tom, and Tom knew this.

Hermione sighed, resting her hand on his chest. "Can we just leave, Draco?" she said, clutching his sheets in her hand. "Go back to the south of France and just camp for a while? We were happy there, remember? For a whole month, we were happy there, just me, you, Harry and Pansy. It was so beautiful, and warm, and smelled like lavender. Provence, Draco. Just you and me." She closed her eyes, wishing for a response that would not come. "Oh God, Draco," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. "What the fuck are we supposed to do?"

* * *

oooo

That evening, she finally made her way to the Great Hall for dinner. The awkward, unlikeable Headmaster Dippet had been insistent that she be publicly sorted as early as possible, which she was not looking forward to. His argument was that school had been in session for over two weeks, and he didn't want her to fall behind.

Being in the giant room awed her, transporting her back to a time in her life when she was still filled with the wonder of the magic of Hogwarts. The ceiling was the deep indigo of twilight shot through with streaks of rich red-orange, twinkling with stars and floating candles. She found herself looking up, thinking of happier times.

As she made her way down the stairs, clad in the all-too-familiar uniform of Hogwarts that Dumbledore had provided for her, the students in the hall quieted. A pin could have dropped and been heard.

Headmaster Dippet made his way to the podium as Hermione stalked down the middle aisle between the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, still struggling with the pain in her body. She bore it stoically, like the soldier she was.

"Good evening, students!" said the Headmaster's voice, not quite as arresting as his successor's. "Before we tuck in to our evening feast, we have two new students to introduce. Hermione Granger and Draco Mallery have come to us all the way from China, although their story is their own to tell. They have come from a very perilous situation, and we are happy to welcome such delightful new students to Hogwarts. Mister Mallery, unfortunately, is very ill at the moment and won't be joining us tonight. They will be in their seventh year here – am I correct about that, Miss Granger?" She nodded her head, climbing the three stairs up to the stage that held the staff table, the podium and, this time around, the stool and the Sorting Hat. She stood next to it, and Dumbledore stood from his chair to take up the Hat, motioning for her to sit. She did.

Hermione chewed her lip anxiously. They – she and Dumbledore – had wanted to forgo sorting, or to at least do it in private, but Dippet had insisted on making a show of it. After she had taken her placement tests earlier that afternoon (at his insistence ) and the Headmaster had realized that he had a new student who topped the charts academically, Dippet had been set on parading her in front of the teachers and student body. Hermione could see Slughorn practically salivating from his chair, staring at the new resident with gleeful, greedy eyes. More students for his stupid Slug Club, she supposed, and suppressed a snort of derision.

"I expect, of course, no matter what houses they are sorted into, that all of you will do your best to make Draco and Hermione feel welcome, especially now that they are in a place of safety and security," Dippet continued, and Hermione despised the sympathy that coated his words, watching as a few students in the crowd nodded their heads gravely, obviously pitying the poor, battered pair and wondering what sort of horror they had come from.

They had no _idea_ what sort of horror she and Draco had come from. Not even a clue.

 _Blood drips from the walls. Flies buzz around dead faces. Rats scurry, gnawing on the remains of friend and foe. Tortured screams echo through the halls._

"So, without further ado, let's get Miss Granger sorted and get on with dinner!" the Headmaster said cheerily. "Albus, if you would do the honors?"

She met Albus' eyes, his blue ones shining with the same anxiety she was sure filled her own. Wringing her hands nervously, she watched with baited breath as Dumbledore set the Sorting Hat down on her head. Hermione closed her eyes.

* * *

oooo

Tom and the rest of the student body sat, transfixed, as the lovely brunette sat with the Sorting Hat on her head. The Hat was quiet, only making a few harrumphing sounds every now and again. Hermione Granger squirmed in poorly concealed anxiety.

The Hat was completely silent. The only way to tell that it was even working was the occasional twitch of its faded, tattered black fabric. Tom watched Hermione's face as the minutes went by. She looked irritated.

His _Tempus_ charm buzzed at five minutes, and then again at six. Tom held his breath, watching the Hat and its wearer closely. Hermione's eyes were wide open and furious, and she looked to be internally arguing with the hat, her mouth turned down into a tight frown. Her jaw ticked. He wondered at how gracefully she'd walked down the aisle, despite her injuries – well, it was more of a _stalk_ than a walk, purposeful and predatory and full of contained energy and power. Like a tiger in a cage. And now the expression on her face, her eyes spitting with annoyance and ferocity…what a strange girl.

After seven minutes passed, the student body and the staff began to fidget, alternately looking around the room uncomfortably and staring at the Sorting Hat as if it was defunct. Some stared in suspicion at the girl whose head it was perched upon, as if she had somehow hurt the Hat. Tom glanced at Dumbledore, who was staring at the girl with concern, his pale eyes unmoving.

After Tom's _Tempus_ charm buzzed at eight minutes, the Sorting Hat shifted and sighed, and after a couple of seconds, cleared its throat.

"Well then, I suppose you belong in _Slyther –_ no, it better be _GRYFFINDOR!"_

The hall erupted in gasps and cheers, and the Gryffindor table didn't quite know what to do with itself. Hermione walked over, sitting between Lupin and Snowborn, as her new housemates congratulated and welcomed her heartily, some looking excited, some looking astonished, some looking suspicious.

She sat on the far side of the Gryffindor table, and he tilted his head curiously as her face slackened in what looked like relief. Dumbledore looked pleased, and relieved as well. Headmaster Dippet moved up to the podium again, but Tom had stopped listening. He was staring so intently at the young woman that he almost didn't realize she was staring back at him.

Granger's gaze was once again cool, calculating, and unnerving in its intensity. Her lips quirked up at the corners, as if she was gloating over some secret that he was not privy to. Then her gaze flicked over to Dumbledore, and the old man nodded at her from across the hall, his eyes sparkling infuriatingly. Hermione smiled and turned her head back towards her new friends, her eyes sliding past Tom as she did so.

And then food appeared on the table, and someone shifted at the Hufflepuff table, blocking his view of the mysterious Gryffindor. When the unnamed Hufflepuff shifted back Hermione was smiling, laughing, and looking anywhere but at him.

When he let his gaze travel over to the staff table, Dumbledore was looking at him, his bright gaze trained on Tom. Tom swallowed, but he did not look away, narrowing his eyes. He eventually broke eye contact and looked at each of his followers. They were all looking at him for instruction, and he picked up his fork, indicating that they could begin to eat. They did so with gusto. But Tom just sat there, looking down at the scuffed white surface of his plate.

 _Eight minutes and four seconds._ It was the second longest sorting in history – just behind the eight minutes and twenty-two seconds of Merlin himself, sorted into Slytherin. And this girl had nearly been put into Slytherin – that was initially what the hat had started to say, was it not? – and yet had ended up in Gryffindor? He might understand if the hat had decided for Ravenclaw instead of Slytherin, or for Gryffindor instead of Hufflepuff. But to belong in both Slytherin and Gryffindor? Did the two houses even _have_ anything in common? Exactly who was this girl?

He could not help the small part of him that felt like he was missing something important. But what was it?

* * *

oooo

Hermione was doomed to share a dorm with the seventh year Gryffindors, all alone with a group of girls she was not even remotely acquainted with besides Sabrina. Who would she endeavor to get to know? Who would she place even a modicum of trust in?

No one. Too risky.

Naturally, Sabrina, Lyall and Ignatius walked with her up to Gryffindor tower, laughing and chatting all the way. The boys reminded her some of Harry and Ron, and at other times it was like she was suddenly standing between Fred and George. It was wild. But they made her laugh, and she was not prone to laughing much anymore. It was a nice respite from the seriousness that had consumed her life.

Of course, just as it had been back in the '90s, girls were already giving her jealous looks. Unfortunately, besides Ginny and then later Pansy, she had never really had many strong friendships with other girls. She was a guys' girl, and she usually preferred it that way, but having to deal with the envy and the petty meanness of the surrounding female population was always a trial. It was obvious that Lyall and Ignatius were popular – reasonably attractive, outgoing, funny, and fairly academically successful. And because they were being so kind to her and paying her extra attention, even though she got the distinct feeling that they weren't keen on her romantically, the other girls were whispering to each other behind their hands and slanting her hostile looks. Some of them merely looked curious, and she took note of the ones that looked like they might be a good place to start making friends. Or at least acquaintances. She was under no illusions that she could afford to make any _real_ friends here. Sabrina was probably as close as it would get. She could not afford to trust anyone else with her full story. Not even Dumbledore, with whom she had been careful not to reveal too much.

"Alright, Hermione, this," Ignatius said, dramatically bowing before the Gryffindor tower portrait, "is the Fat Lady."

"And the love of my life," Lyall added, placing his hand on the gilded frame.

Sabrina rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. The Fat Lady giggled and pressed a hand to her heart, flattered. "Oh Lupin, you absolute cad," she said, her cheeks suffused with a merry blush. "Don't be silly. Is this a new student?"

"Yes, ma'am," Hermione said, stepping forward. She curtsied prettily. "Hermione Granger, at your service. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." The Fat Lady and she had never really gotten along – Hermione had always thought the portrait silly and petty and everything that Hermione wasn't – but she'd learned from experience that it was better to be on her good side. The painting had a remarkable ability to make a student's life miserable, if she so wished. Hermione was glad for the chance to start over with her.

"Oh, my, well, what a _dear,"_ the Fat Lady said, and Hermione smiled up at her. "So polite. Such manners. Well, darling," she continued, fanning herself with her fine silk fan, "the password right now is 'Bowtruckle.'" She winked. "But if you forget it, I'll make an exception for you, dear. I've let these two gentlemen pass time and time again when they've forgotten passwords. Mr. Prewett is especially prone to forgetfulness, isn't that right, Ignatius, dear?"

The way Ignatius blushed from the tips of his ears to his throat reminded her so much of Ron and the rest of the Weasley clan. Hermione simultaneously felt like giggling and crying.

"Well, er, yeah, but I can't help it, you know?" he said to Hermione, rubbing the back of his neck. "It sort of runs in the family, you see. My father sometimes forgets to put on socks in the morning, and he'll come home from work with giant blisters on his feet."

Hermione grinned. "Well, Ignatius, if you ever need help remembering something, just come to me, all right? I'll make sure you have your socks on and your password straight." She turned back to the Fat Lady. "Thank you very much, madam. Now, if you'll excuse us – it's been a very, very long week, and I can't even tell you how good a warm bed sounds right about now."

"Oh, yes of course, dear," the Fat Lady crooned, and she swung open without waiting for the password, allowing them inside.

The Gryffindor common room was more or less the same as it had been during Hermione's school days, and the familiarity of it was such a balm on Hermione's permanently broken heart that she almost started crying then and there.

Instead, she let Lyall, Sabrina and Ignatius show her around, listening with only half an ear to all of the facts and trivia that she already knew twenty times over. She knew where everything was by heart. Besides the fact that one of the armchairs in 1944 had been turned into a couch by 1992, she could walk the room blindfolded.

"Thank you so much for showing me around, guys," she said graciously, flashing the two boys a brilliant smile. Though Hermione had been awkward and socially inept for years, partially due to her somewhat priggish, uptight personality as a girl, she had long since learned to put that aside in favor of manipulation. Did she still have an affinity for being an overly organized know-it-all? Yes. Did she let that part of her get in the way of doing what needed to be done? Not anymore. She had shed that skin long ago. She was uptight for a different reason, now: _survival._ And it was a vastly different creature from her previous nature.

"No problem, Hermione," Ignatius said, clearing his throat and blushing cutely. "Lyall and I can't show you up to the girls' dorms because the door won't let us pass, but Sabrina will take you up." So the sliding staircase hadn't been invented yet? Interesting.

"Yes, Ignatius, dear," the pretty prefect said in a scathing tone, sending a long-suffering look to Hermione, to which Hermione grinned.

Lyall threw an arm around Sabrina's shoulders and the leggy brunette automatically threw it back off, glaring at him. Ignatius sniggered.

Sabrina rolled her eyes but took Hermione by the elbow. "As if you louts haven't already done your damage," she muttered. Hermione couldn't help but chuckle, and Sabrina winked at her. "Right little monsters those two are – and have been since our first year here. Don't let them talk you into doing anything, all right? They have a penchant for embarrassing people with obnoxious pranks. They might like you, but no one is safe. No one."

"Oi, that's not fair!" Ignatius said petulantly.

"Don't poison her against us so soon, 'Brina!" Lyall called out as Sabrina steered her towards the girls' dorms.

Hermione turned to look over her shoulder. "I wasn't born yesterday, boys. I already knew you were trouble; I didn't need her to tell me that. Goodnight!"

Sabrina clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle laughter and she pulled Hermione up the stairs and shut the heavy arched door behind them, cutting off the guys' loud protests.

Hermione smiled. "Thanks for agreeing to take me under your wing, Sabrina. Without Draco here, I feel sort of lost," she admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. It was a semi-true statement – she had been with Draco for so long now that being separated from him around so many new people felt strange and just a little unsafe. _Too many variables,_ she thought, the soldier in her processing her surroundings with a speed developed by years of instinct. But for the most part the statement was a manipulative one. Pretty girls were easily threatened by other pretty girls, especially at this age. Showing vulnerability made Sabrina more likely to sympathize with her, and more likely to trust her. And less likely to stab her in the back, although her interaction with her all day had been so delightful that Hermione doubted the girl would be a problem. They had already formed a tentative friendship.

These politics were exactly why Hermione preferred men.

"So what's going on with your friend Draco? How long will he be in a coma?" Sabrina asked casually.

Hermione hummed. "He was cursed, and it's taken a toll. He'll be all right," she said, and she nearly choked on the lie, "but it's probably best for him to be close to Madam P – Soranus." She winced as she nearly spat out the name Pomfrey, but if the other girl noticed she did not say anything. Hermione mentally berated herself. She needed to be more careful.

Sabrina nodded in agreement as they came to the top of the stairs and then grabbed Hermione's hand, pulling her into one of four corridors. "The sixth and seventh year girls' dorms are down this hall," her guide said, changing the subject.

"Oh, do we all live together in one room, then?" Hermione said, feigning wide-eyed ignorance.

Sabrina giggled. "No, silly there are seven sixth year girls and only four seventh years – you make five, I suppose – so each group gets their own room and bathroom." She stopped suddenly in the hallway, and Hermione struggled not to pull her wand out and look for danger. Sabrina drew her in close. "There are a couple of girls to warn you about, by the way," she said lowly, looking over her shoulder. Hermione paid close attention. "Anita Bath is a sixth year, and she's just bloody awful. Keeps to herself, mostly, super weird, and she glares at anyone who looks at her. She gets teased a lot, but don't even bother trying to make friends with her – she isn't interested," she continued, waving her hand and rolling her eyes. "Misty McGill, Suzanne Sapworthy and Lorraine Limpley are also sixth years, and thick as thieves. _Don't_ tell them anything you don't want to be spread around the entire school. Also, they're prone to exaggeration, so any story they hear is going to end up outlandish when they tell it. Iris Fawley is a seventh year, and she lives with us; she's prone to flights of fancy, and she's stupidly gorgeous, so she sees other girls as threats to her 'throne', I suppose you could say – so don't show any signs of weakness, but don't pick fights with her. She's not awful, mind you, but she's also prone to gossip and she likes to think of herself as the most desirable girl in the school." Sabrina looked Hermione up and down, and Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, feeling strangely self-conscious under the penetrating icy gaze. "You might give her a run for her money, so watch your back," Sabrina said lowly.

Hermione's eyebrows drew down in consternation. She knew that she was reasonably good-looking, but she was no beauty – or at least, no one had ever told her so. Had she missed something this whole time? All she saw when she looked in the mirror was a jaded, too-thin woman with haunted eyes, crazy hair, and a multitude of scars.

"Zuri Rubright is another seventh year – you'll kind of get the sense that she's looking down her nose at you, because she's a pretty fantastic student. Her younger sister, Basil, is a sixth year Ravenclaw, and she'll give you the same snotty look sometimes. Zuri should have been sorted into Ravenclaw too, if you ask me, but we get along with her well enough." Sabrina paused. "Oh! I almost forgot," she said with a smile, "my best friend is Kat – Kat Agory. I think she's already up for the night, so you'll get to meet her tonight, hopefully. She's pretty great." Sabrina tapped her chin. "There are three more sixth year girls who are all pretty nice and won't bother you: Polly Swedenborg and Wilma Johnson, who are best friends and on the quidditch team together, and Alma White, who you'll sometimes forget exists. But I told you some of this already."

Hermione exhaled, filing away all of the names for later so that she could write them down and commit them to memory. The perks of an eidetic memory did not always apply to verbal and auditory information, which is why she had always taken such impeccable notes.

It was also a curse, because it meant that she remembered everything – _everything_ – that she had ever seen with vivid detail. And unfortunately because of the war there were hundreds of things that Hermione would rather have forgotten; images that were doomed to linger in her steel trap of a mind forever.

"Thanks for the crash course, and thank you for spending the morning showing me around," Hermione said, feeling unsteady. She was too tired for anything else. She just wanted to go to bed.

"No problem," Sabrina said, her voice cheery. "Tomorrow we can go over a few more things, although Iris might be best suited for that, seeing as how her social network is infinitely more vast than mine and spans over all four houses – even the Slytherins," she said in a mock whisper behind her hand. "So scandalous. But I'll tell you all about house rivalries later. I'll bet you're exhausted. You look dead on your feet, Hermione."

Hermione nodded and sighed. "It's been a long day. A long year, to be honest. I could really use some sleep. Will you show me the dorm and bathroom?"

Sabrina agreed heartily and continued down the hallway to the door on the right side of the hall – Hermione knew from experience that the door on the left was the sixth year girls' dorm.

As the common room had been, the dorms and bathrooms were just as she remembered them. Four-poster beds, full size, with rich scarlet curtains and white, gold and red bedding. Only one shower stall though, cast in white tile with a frosted glass door, and three toilets in private stalls, with flush chains that hung down from the ceiling decorated with red and gold fabric. There were three nice looking baths in the back. Bronze sconces lined the walls, casting dancing light and shadows across the red wallpaper.

She had never realized just how unsettling the color red was. She'd been surrounded by it in her youth, growing up in the Gryffindor dormitories, wearing Gryffindor robes, watching her best friends march off in crimson-colored quidditch uniforms. Now she was starting to realize that it had become less a color of comfort and familiarity and more a color of horror and a reminder of loss. Gryffindor red no longer only reminded her of home, of solace, of security. Now it also reminded her of blood, and of death. It reminded her of the sticky wet feel of someone's life force on her skin. It reminded her of how many people she'd seen killed at someone else's hands – and how many she'd killed with her own hands.

Suddenly, she wished the Sorting Hat had stuck with its first choice for her – Slytherin. She might have been better off there. And, strangely enough, she might belong there more now, after everything she'd seen and done; now that they way she thought and the attitude with which she looked at the world had been flipped on their heads. But her overwhelming desire to be away from Tom Riddle and instead amongst the place she had once felt so safe had swayed its decision, and now she would have to lie in the bed she'd made. And if she wanted to at least attempt to keep his interest away from her, being in his house was probably not the best option.

Sighing, she allowed Sabrina to lead her around, trying to shake the images of her past from her damaged psyche with little success.

"Everyone, this is Hermione," Sabrina said when they fully entered the seventh year girls' dorm. Three young women occupied the room, and they all greeted her with varying degrees of warmth.

One of the girls was already tucked into bed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She was obviously of Indian descent, with slanted dark eyes, warm skin and jet-black hair pulled back into a tight braid. She reminded Hermione of Padma, but with a stronger nose. Hermione thought she looked slightly irritated. "I'm Zuri," the girl said without a smile. "Nice to meet you." Then she pulled the curtains of her bed close, cutting off any reply Hermione might have made.

There was a snigger from the corner, and Hermione looked over to see a slim, rather plain girl with an oval face and pretty hazel eyes lounging on the window seat, laughing. "Zuri gets a bit grouchy when she doesn't get her beauty sleep," she said in a stage whisper. Hermione thought she heard a mumbled curse behind Zuri's bed curtains, and this only made Sabrina and the other brunette laugh harder. The girl got up from her seat on the window and walked over to where Hermione stood, offering her hand for her to shake. "I'm Kat. We're glad to have you with us, Hermione." As average as the girl's appearance was (she certainly wasn't ugly, but not as striking as her best friend), her personality certainly seemed to pack a punch.

"It was starting to get a bit boring around here, to be honest," said another voice from the far right corner. Hermione looked over to see a stunning, blue-eyed blonde wrapped in a fluffy blue towel perched on the edge of an unkempt bed. She was painting her nails a pale pink, and her long golden hair was still damp at the ends. She turned around, and Hermione was able to get the full effects of her spectacular beauty. She made Lavender Brown look plain. She smiled at Hermione, but Hermione, as perceptive as she was, saw the calculating glint in her eyes. "It's nice to shake things up a bit, especially since it's our last year here. I'm Iris Fawley. Hermione, was it?"

"Hermione Granger," she confirmed, inclining her head. Never having been one for vanity, Hermione still felt slightly shamed in Iris' presence. She inwardly sneered at herself for being so ridiculous. She was above such things…wasn't she?

"Well, Hermione," said Iris, flashing her a pearly white smile, " welcome to Hogwarts. How does it compare to China so far?"

"Less bloodshed," Hermione responded, her voice flat.

Iris' smile faded, and Kat coughed uncomfortably. Sabrina laid a hand on Hermione's arm. She tried not to flinch. "Yes, well, you're incredibly tired, as you've said before," the blue-eyed brunette said, "and we don't want to keep you up. We can finish playing twenty questions tomorrow over breakfast, yeah?" she finished, looking around at Iris and Kat and then back at Hermione.

Hermione swallowed, instantly regretting her poor choice of words. These girls…they weren't like her. They didn't even come from the same planet as her. Draco and she were like two wasps in a colony of ants. They didn't fit in here, and their sense of humor was too jaded and cynical for the likes of a bunch of teenage students. She couldn't just say things like that and expect people not to feel uncomfortable.

Then again, she didn't necessarily want to make them feel _comfortable._ She was not here to make friends, and yet… Perhaps she could somehow…work it to her advantage?

She could be likeable. She could make herself attractive to the opposite sex. She would somehow have to put herself out there in a manner that was alluring to the male students and yet not too threatening to the female students, all the while making sure they knew she wasn't someone to be trifled with. She would have to be subtle about it; she didn't want to draw too much attention to herself. She needed to draw people in, but at the same time keep them at arms length. She had decided to try to fly under the radar, so to speak, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it was probably a fool's errand. She remained undecided about it. She had already caught the eye of the Hogwarts staff and students, including one Tom Marvolo Riddle. Now that she was under the microscope, so to speak, she might as well twist it to her advantage. It might be too late to pretend to be nobody. She would try it first, of course, maybe starting with trying to be mediocre in class and putting a subtle notice-me-not charm on herself, but if it didn't work she would have to go in the other direction.

Then she would have to be mysterious and extraordinary. Because there was no in-between here. It was either have no one notice you, or be so noticeable that no one would ever forget you. And she might have already missed her chance to pull the first one off, much to her annoyance. Take her crash landing in the middle of Albus' office during lunch, plus her accidental meeting with Riddle in the empty lavatory earlier that day, complete with Bellatrix Lestrange-esque crazy eyes and a display of wandless, non-verbal magic that no teenager should be able to pull, and, well…

She would have to channel her inner Snape, her inner Draco, her inner Pansy, and her inner Ginny. She would have to be cunning, in control of her emotions, manipulative, and fearless. She would have to create a persona so ambiguous that no one would be able to put a finger on her. She would have to start by getting people to trust her, and yet she couldn't let them become too comfortable. It would have to be the perfect balance. And she might have to come to terms with the prospect of the timeline being completely warped.

"Thank you girls for making me feel welcome," she said, making sure her smile was tight but genuine. She did not have to fake the look of haunted intrigue in her eyes. "I'm sorry I'm not very lively. Unlike Zuri, I haven't really had the chance to get any beauty sleep in…quite a while. So I'm a bit grouchy, and I just wanted to make sure that you all know that I'm grateful."

The three girls still awake visibly softened, and Hermione wanted to slap the looks of sympathy from their faces – but it was the reaction she'd been looking for. She smiled sheepishly.

"Of course, Hermione," said Sabrina softly. "We've been so thoughtless. Here, your bed is the closest one to the door. Is that alright?"

"Perfect," Hermione said, and she meant it. The closest she was to the door, the quicker she could escape; it was just how she thought these days. "Is this… _my_ trunk?" she asked, running her hand along the lid of the open trunk at the foot of her bed. It contained two Hogwarts uniforms in addition to the one she was wearing: two crisp white shirts, one heather grey sweater and one charcoal grey sweater, two pleated skirts in black and grey, two red and gold striped ties, three pairs of knee socks in grey, black and white, a pair of black tights for colder weather, and a pair of shiny black Mary Janes. Two sets of outer robes, seemingly new, black as pitch and lined with deep crimson, lay draped across the end of the bed. Thirteen books for the ten N.E.W.T. subjects she would be taking (unnecessary, but if there was one thing she hated it was being idle) sat at the bottom of her trunk, complete with a leather binder full of parchment and several fine quills and bottles of ink. Folded atop her pillow was a pale blue satin nightgown that came to her knees and an ankle-length, ivory satin robe, true to 1940s style. "All of this stuff is mine?"

She had stuff, of course – after she had bathed she had tucked her beaded bag back into the cup of her bra. But all of these things were brand new, and the quills, ink and binder were expensive, by the look of things. The things in her purple bag were, if not ancient, well worn. Of course, she had certain books and items in her bag that weren't even remotely legal, whereas all of the things in her new trunk were innocent, free of the darkness of war and death. It was…nice.

"It seems the Headmaster arranged for some things to be sent up for you," Sabrina said, raising her eyebrow at the sight of the pile of nice things.

"Dippet? Really, Sabrina?" Kat said, taking the liberty of picking up Hermione's robes and folding them neatly on top of her books and uniforms. She kindly handed Hermione her new pajamas, urging her to put them on. "You know his belfry is full of bats these days. No, it would've been Dumbledore or Merrythought to do all of this. I'm sure Mallery has one just like it, waiting for him when he wakes up."

Hermione fought against every instinct she had to cover up her body from these strangers; it was one thing to be undressed around Draco, or Harry, or Pansy, or almost any Order member, but it was different around people she didn't know. What she could see of Iris' smooth skin was pale and creamy and free of any blemishes or scars. Nothing like the mess that was Hermione's body. But she shook off her insecurities, imagined what Harry or Draco would say – _"They're badges of honor, Hermione! Battle scars! They just prove how much of a badass you are!" "You're still hot, Granger – you're just a bit more colorful than other girls. It's kind of a turn on, to be honest." –_ and channeled her inner Pansy. _"Who cares what those tossers think, anyway? We're still the sexiest bitches in England."_ She still did not look any of the girls in the eye when she changed, and she did so as quickly as humanly possible. She was glad she had the presence of mind to ask Dumbledore to put a powerful notice-me-not charm on her left arm over her scar. There was no concealing it effectively with a glamour charm beyond the short term – an hour or two, at most – but the notice-me-not charm would last for a few days, and her skin would tingle when it was time to renew it. She couldn't make it disappear – she could never make it disappear – but she could make sure no one cared to look too hard at what it said.

She ignored the awkward silence that filled the room as she removed her bra, returned her beaded bag to its original size and heavily warded it as subtly as she could, and began to redress in the night clothes that had been provided for her.

"So where did – " Kat began.

"It's not our business, Agory," Zuri said, poking her head back out of the curtain, her tone still brisk but softer than it had been before; she had been awake and listening all along. "And surely any questions we have can wait until tomorrow, when she's better rested. Right, girls?" She looked pointedly at each of her classmates, giving them quelling looks, as if she knew all of them were just dying to delve into Hermione's story. Hermione was grateful for this, actually, because she didn't have the energy to answer questions all night. She gave Zuri a small, secret smile, and knew they would get along just fine. Out of all the girls she'd met so far, Zuri was probably the most like Hermione – or the most like the original Hermione, the person she had been back in her school years before she'd transformed into whoever, or _whatever,_ she was now.

"I know it's not necessarily your business," she said to Zuri, "but I dislike people feeling awkward around me. So don't be afraid to ask. If I don't want to answer, then I'll tell you I don't want to answer, and I won't be shy about it. But I don't want you to tip toe around me like I'm some half-starved, orphaned kitten that washed up on the beach," she continued, her lips quirking up. "But perhaps we can talk more tomorrow?"

All four girls nodded, and Zuri, after one last, tight smile, disappeared back behind her curtains while Sabrina and Kat got undressed for the evening in comfortable silence. Hermione suspected, as she watched Iris' blue eyes shift between all of the beds, that her presence was disrupting their nightly routine, which she imagined involved some gossiping and giggling. She would make sure to somehow encourage them to get back to it tomorrow – after all, gossip could be helpful, and Hermione planned to have her hands in many pots here in 1944 Hogwarts. The sooner she could get started, the better.

"Goodnight, all," she said quietly, settling in under the covers and blowing out the sconce that was nearest her bed. "Thanks for everything, and see you in the morning."

She heard a couple of "goodnights" echo around the room, and, pulling her curtains closed tightly around her, she attempted to drift off to sleep, hoping that her nightmares wouldn't be enough to wake her new housemates.

And knowing that perhaps that was too much to hope for…and preparing for a night of blood and screams that were sure to echo throughout her dreams.

After she fell asleep, she didn't notice the ghostly, orange apparition that escaped through her skin, hovered over her body, and then receded back to its new home in her heart. All she did was kick the sheets off, suddenly flushed.

Fawkes tried his hardest to keep the nightmares at bay.

oooo

* * *

 **So, I know that in the early twentieth-century female Hogwarts students wore gymslips instead of just skirts, but I don't really like that idea, so all the girls will just be wearing plain old pleated skirts, nice and simple. And much easier to take on and off, if you catch my drift. *winks lecherously* ;)**

 **And, like I said before, sorry for robbing you of the chance to see the sorting hat's perusal of our Hermione's brain, but I will show it to you piecemeal throughout the rest of the story.**

 **Hugs and kisses and well-wishes to anyone who reviews. :D**

 **Giraffe :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you all so much for taking the time to review! I can't tell you how much it lifts my spirits to even just get a smiley face from you. It's really encouraging and keeps me writing! So thank you.**

 **To Melon, who reviewed as a guest so I was not able to PM her back: I totally understand that Hermione seems sexist in chapter 5, and I didn't really realize it until you pointed it out. I suppose, even though I am unlike Hermione Granger's character in virtually every way, I do share one thing with her: I grew up with two guys as my best friends. Though Hermione does have female friends – Ginny and Luna – she never really connected with any females like she did with Harry and Ron, and only marginally did so in fifth year. And I suppose I can relate strongly to this. Besides one early childhood friend who I still occasionally see because our families are so intertwined, I made my first** _ **real**_ **girl-friend when I was twenty-two. Though I had fun with some of the girls on my hall in college (which lasted for just three semesters, lol), I always fit in better with the boys and soon became the sweetheart of a fraternity and was somewhat ostracized by the general female population (with a few exceptions). The same thing happened in middle and high school as well: my two best friends (one of who died in a car accident and the other of who now lives in Tokyo) were both very popular, attractive, outgoing guys and we were very close and girls hated me because I was this largely average girl who wasn't even that much of a** _ **tomboy**_ **either (although I did straddle the line, the whole outdoorsy-sky-diving-backpacking type fits me to a T) so** _ **why on earth**_ **would they possibly be interested in** _ **me?**_ **Despite being exceptionally socially gifted (I'm naturally very outgoing and both of my parents were ministers so I learned how to work social circles growing up), I always felt slightly intimidated by girls because they only used me to get to my guyfriends, and I became generally wary of them as a result. Things are a little bit different now that I'm a bit older, and most people have grown up by now, but I still remember being painfully immersed in a world of insecure teenaged girls (who ironically were usually much prettier than I was) that endeavored to put me down in front of my friends to make themselves look better. It never worked, because I had some kick-ass friends that were so above that sort of petty shit; but it did its damage, and it definitely changed the way I view the world of women. However, let it be said that men are flawed. Very, VERY FLAWED. So flawed. Believe me, I am under no illusions that one sex is better than the other. (Like Hermione, I spent quite some time sharing a camper with my two best friends, and let me tell you – RESPECT. Respect for Hermione, 'cause DAMN, I could not imagine spending a YEAR with those two buffoons, and no amount of love can change that.) The moral of the story is: if Hermione seems to be sexist, that is simply my own sexism shining through my writing. And that's my fault. Don't blame Hermione. She is, unfortunately, subject to my bias. Sorry about that.**

 **Also, a size 32 in Europe is a size two in America. Just so people get that (it's referenced very briefly a few paragraphs down).**

 **One more thing: no, this is not going to be a love triangle story. I already have one of those, and I don't think I want to do it again, because it was not only poorly thought out and executed on my part, but also an exhausting dynamic to keep up with. So no.**

* * *

oooo

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places. –Ernest Hemmingway

There have to be moments when you glimpse something decent, something life-affirming even in the most twisted character. That's where the real art lies. See, I always suspect characters who are painted as lovely, decent human beings. I would always question where the darkness lies. – Martin McDonagh

Make ash and leave the dust behind  
Lady diamond in the sky  
Wild light  
Glowing bright  
To guide me  
When I fall  
I fall on tragedy  
Welcome to the inner workings of my mind  
So dark and foul I can't disguise  
Can't disguise  
Nights like this  
I become afraid  
Of the darkness in my heart  
Hurricane  
\- "Hurricane" by MSMR

* * *

oooo

 _Saturday, February 8, 1997_

 _Oxford_

 _The sense of horror when she sees her parents strung up from their kitchen ceiling, missing their eyes and tongues, sporting broken necks and backs that are bent unnaturally – no swift, painless Avada Kedavra for them – is so acute that she cannot help but fall to her knees._

 _Dumbledore is suddenly there, bursting through the door, and McGonagall is hot on his heels. Harry and Ron come crashing through a moment later, and she is surrounded by the two people that she loves most in the world. But she cannot take her eyes off of her parents, who are beaten and bloodied and have obviously been hideously tortured._

 _They had been on their way out the door, all set to move to Australia. Hermione had initially been waiting for the summer to modify her parent's memories, but Dumbledore had advised her to do it as soon as possible. Things in England are getting worse and worse every day. No one is safe anymore._

 _She had been too late in acting, and now her parents swing from the ceiling of their house like distorted puppets._

 _Later, it takes Ginny and Luna's gentle hands to undress her and wash the blood off of her skin and out of her hair. Hermione vaguely remembers being on her hands and knees in the river of red, inconsolable, clutching at her hair with bloodied hands. Now she sits, numb, in the prefects' bath as her two friends scrub and massage her skin._

 _Her parents. Dead. Horribly, awfully murdered by Voldemort and his foul followers._

 _Harry and Ron come in later after she has climbed in the bed – she has been given a separate dorm, for a few days, to recover; she does not want to face the girls in her dormitory – and they slip under the covers on either side of her, each grabbing one of her hands. She squeezes them so tight that she knows it must hurt, but they don't say a word against it._

" _We love you, Hermione," Harry says, and Ron hums in fervent agreement, dropping a kiss on her forehead. In any other situation she would have been ecstatic at the show of affection – she has loved Ron for a while, after all – but this evening all she can think about is how her parents are dead, and they are never coming back, and how they hadn't even known who she was when they were being tortured in their own home for no apparent reason._

 _She cries for a long time. Sometimes she stops to nap, sometimes she stops and has a cup of tea, sometimes she plays the name game with Harry and Ron as they hold her in their loving embrace._

 _And she realizes just how much she loves them, and feels how much they love her, and she is thankful. For no matter what happens, she will always have these two unfailingly devoted buffoons by her side._

 _If they all sleep in the same bed for a few nights in a row, no one speaks a word against it._

* * *

oooo

Hermione woke in a cold sweat, flashes of green light still lingering behind her eyelids. She just lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling, letting her heart rate slow and her eyes adjust to the dim light of dawn.

Her body felt frozen. When she finally did make the effort to move, it was like she was made of rusty hinges. She groaned and winced in pain as her body, still trying to recover from its injuries, loudly protested against any sort of movement. Ignoring it, she spent several minutes stretching – a suggestion made by Madam Soranus – and then took a deep breath and began to prepare for the day.

It was a Wednesday. The twentieth of September. She couldn't believe that she was already twenty-three. She was glad she had been so distracted yesterday that she had been able to mostly keep it from her mind. She had learned to deal with it, over the past couple of years, but it was still understandably hard for her. But today also marked the day of the beginning of her two month long imprisonment and torture. Today was the date that she had first awoken in her cell to the smell of blood and death.

Sighing, she took a bath and dressed in the brand new robes and uniform that had been waiting for her in her dorm the night before. She reluctantly knotted the red and gold tie around her neck, somehow feeling like she didn't belong in the colors anymore.

 _And I see you have a_ _ **lovely**_ _array of spells accredited to your name, Miss Granger…I'm impressed with your level of innovation, if not with the dark intent behind it. You would be bored as a Ravenclaw. You would chew all of Hufflepuff up and spit it out without even needing to floss, I fear, though your heart is, undoubtedly, in the right place. Whilst as a first year you were unflinchingly noble and honest, you seem to have developed a very "means-justifies-the-ends" sort of thought process over the last few years (even starting as a second year, illegally brewing Polyjuice in the girls' bath - creative use of a lavatory, I admit). I cannot say that I approve or disapprove – I see your memories, I see the things you've been through, despite your attempts to block me out with Occlumency; though you must know from "Hogwarts: A History" that the mind magics do not work on me, dear girl – and I can understand how desperate you have become. You are fundamentally still a Gryffindor, Miss Granger – I promise you that will never change – but something has been warped, deep down, and I cannot help but feel like you might do better in Slytherin. Then again, there is the issue of the phoenix that has seen fit to intrude upon your person, which is another matter entirely…_

She was not so surprised that the Sorting Hat had thought to put her in Slytherin. Oh, she knew she would end up insisting on Gryffindor, but as she had blossomed into a full-grown woman she had seen the changes that had occurred within her. She was still Hermione Granger, but her life experiences had shaped her dramatically, and it showed. She was quite different from the girl she had been in school. Sometimes she liked herself better this way. Other times, she missed the old Hermione; but she knew that the old Hermione would never have survived in the environment of such a dirty, bloody war. She had adapted, and no one could fault her for that. Draco had adapted, as well, out of necessity. He had forced himself to learn to play nice with others and collaborate with people he had nothing in common with. And eventually he had realized that he _did_ have something in common with them, something important: survival. _Life._ And he had learned to care about something other than himself and his family. He had learned how to be vulnerable.

Hermione wished he were here.

Pulling on her shoes, she placed featherweight charms on her books and threw them into the nice new leather satchel that Dumbledore had gifted her. She looked around; two of her four dorm mates were still abed, and another was in the shower. Sabrina was gone. Straightening her jumper, she once again thought of Draco.

It felt surreal, knowing that he was going to die. She'd prepared herself for the possibility, sure; you had to, when you were risking your life everyday. But it was one thing to expect an Avada Kedavra to the chest at any time – it was entirely another to watch as your body gradually betrayed itself. She had never imagined that Draco would die slowly. The anticipation was different, somehow.

Hauling her body off the window seat where she'd put on her shoes, she gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, along with a couple of foul tasting potions, walked down the stairs, and opened the door to the girls dorms only to come face to face with Lupin and Prewett. Lupin had his hand raised to knock, but at Hermione's appearance he let it fall back down by his side.

"Good timing, Hermione!" Ignatius piped up, smiling at her. She found herself smiling back.

"We just thought we'd walk you down to the Great Hall for breakfast," Lyall said, his grey-blue eyes twinkling mischievously. "Wouldn't want you to suddenly have a fainting spell or something."

She snorted, amused. "So glad to have you two heroes around to rescue me if I need you."

Lyall ran a hand through his sable brown hair. "We're courageous and noble like that. Gryffindors, remember?" he said, pulling at his tie.

"We're in the business of rescuing damsels in distress," Ignatius added with a cheeky grin.

Hermione gave a wry smile. These two reminded her entirely too much of the Weasley twins, although they lacked the ability to finish each other's sentences in the same way. "Can we just hurry up and get to breakfast, you ponces? I'm starving." She paused, and scanned the corridors, noticing only a handful of scattered students meandering down to breakfast.

"This is surreal," she said, feeling the lightened weight of the books on her shoulder and watching as Gryffindors trickled down the corridor in ones and twos. "I forgot what it's like to be in school," she admitted, and it was entirely true. "It brings back a lot of memories." A picture of Ron, Harry and her walking down to the Great Hall together flashed through her brain, and her throat constricted.

Prewett's brow furrowed. "But aren't Draco and you still in school, too?"

"Not for a while now," she said, sticking with the story she and Dumbledore had agreed on after some in-depth discussion. "Things in the East have been bad for quite some time. Draco's parents and my own moved to China when we were children, and we started at a wizarding school there when we were ten – that's where we met." Schools in the East usually accepted students a year earlier than schools in Europe, and it was the sort of small detail that lent credibility to their story. "The war broke out during our third year, and in our fifth year the school was attacked and destroyed. Essentially, we became soldiers out of necessity. Things are a mess over there – have been for years. Our schooling sort of fell by the wayside. We learned what we could through books and through more experienced wizards whenever they had the chance to teach us, but mostly we taught ourselves. So it's been a while since we've actually sat through a class," she said, keeping her tone light lest things become too serious.

"Merlin," Ignatius breathed, and Lyall's face mirrored his friend's, painted with shock and consternation. "That sounds terrible. And here I was thinking how much school sucked and how I can't wait for it to be over."

Rather than be offended, Hermione chuckled. They'd all felt the same way once upon a time; ignorance really was bliss. "School is easy," she told them, readjusting the strap of her bag. "The real world is hard. And war is hell."

The two younger boys were silent after that, seemingly contemplative. Of course, Hermione couldn't tell them that Draco and she had really been fighting in a full-scale war for over five years, and before that she had been exposed to increasing amounts of unrest for seven years – all through school, right here in Hogwarts. Since Hermione's first year she had been battling with Voldemort in some form or other. Draco had had it relatively easy until Voldemort regained his true form in their fourth year and things had become all too real for him and his family.

Se couldn't tell them that yesterday had been her twenty-third birthday, not her eighteenth, and that Draco had turned twenty-two that June. She couldn't let them in on the fact that Draco and she had traveled back in time by over half a century and that their charismatic Head Boy – who, even though he was a Slytherin, students of all houses looked up to – was destined to become the darkest wizard of all time; that he would be responsible for thousands of deaths. She couldn't tell Lyall that his only son would die at the hand of one of his current classmates, Dolohov, and that his grandson would be orphaned before he reached his first birthday. She couldn't tell Ignatius that his nephews and nieces would be tortured and slaughtered by some of Voldemort's most loyal followers. She couldn't tell them that the guilt of being alive while so many others had died around her was eating at her day after day. She couldn't tell them that Draco's own aunt had doomed him to die. She couldn't tell them that she, driven by rage and revenge, had sometimes turned to dark magic to satisfy her needs; magic that she did not fully understand. She couldn't tell them that the war in China in the 1940s was child's play compared to the war in Britain in the 1990s and 2000s.

Ah. Well. The only option available to her now was just to try to keep her head above water. Breakfast was a good place to start.

She walked down to the Great Hall with her two friends, chattering on about this and that. When they reached the Great Hall they went to go sit next to Sabrina, who smiled at Hermione.

"Sorry I didn't wait for you this morning, Hermione," she said, spearing a piece of sausage and shoving it into her mouth. "I have a meeting with Professor Dumbledore before class starts, so I needed to get up earlier than usual." As soon as Hermione and the two boys sat down, Sabrina jumped up and grabbed her bag. "Sorry, but I've got to run – I'll see you all in Transfiguration!"

Hermione shook her head. "She's…perky," she commented, looking after Sabrina as the girl left with a bounce in her step.

Ignatius laughed from across the table. "That's our Sabrina. She's quite the early bird." He looked at her expectedly, and she forced herself to meet those all-too-familiar eyes. "Well, aren't you going to eat?" he asked, gesturing to the plate that had appeared in front of her.

"Oh yeah…food," she said lamely, looking at the array of choices spread out on the table.

Anger bubbled forth, but she kept it off her face. It was such a bountiful spread, and so much of it would go to waste, and she hadn't had a full meal in _months!_ Her appetite abruptly vanished. The irony of the situation wasn't funny at all. What she would've given to have even a portion of this after they had been ousted from Grimmauld Place last year.

"Come on, Hermione, you'd blow over in a strong wind," Lyall said, pushing the plate of scrambled eggs towards her.

She smiled at him, but it did not reach her eyes. "I guess my appetite just hasn't caught up to the sudden abundance of food. I'm still processing the change – my stomach is, too." She raked some eggs on to her plate and downed half a glass of pumpkin juice and a mug of coffee, forcing herself to get things down. She was still trying to recover from the battle – it wouldn't do to keep starving herself. She needed to eat. She just didn't necessarily _want_ to eat. An image of Pansy traipsing through the forest with Hermione came to mind. She had first realized just how skinny Pansy had become as she had noticed that her friend's ribs were poking out and that she was wearing a belt to keep a pair of Hermione's shorts up – Hermione was a size _thirty-two_ _._ It had been difficult to see her friend in such bad shape.

She stood immediately after she was finished, intending on getting to the loo before class. She waved the two boys goodbye and in a flash was gone, leaving Lyall and Ignatius staring after her blankly.

"Well, that was quick," Ignatius said to his friend as the doors to the Great Hall banged shut behind her.

Lyall hummed in agreement. Hermione Granger seemed like a very nice girl, but she was definitely peculiar. He shrugged and continued his breakfast.

* * *

oooo

Hermione stood in a little used girl's lavatory on the ground floor; just down the hall from the Transfiguration class she was about to take. She looked down at her wand. Something had changed. It no longer responded to her in the same way – she lifted it, trying to cast her patronus, and sighed as a weak tendril of light sputtered out the end.

She attempted to transfigure a bar of soap into a hairbrush; she succeeded, but the end of the hairbrush was melted and disfigured.

"Not good," she whispered to herself, staring at her haunted face in the mirror. Her eyes were large and brown, but as she stared at them, she could swear that she saw the golden silhouette of a phoenix reflected in her pupils. It was gone as soon as it was there, but Hermione knew what she'd seen.

"Fawkes!" she whispered, gritting her teeth and casting a heavy locking and silencing spell on the room. "I know you're in there," she continued furiously. "You can't hide forever. Tell me what you've done to my magic! Everything's changed!"

Fawkes' essence suddenly flared to life inside her, and she staggered backwards into the door of a toilet stall. She bounced on the wooden surface, and then reeled forward again and hit the sink. Every nerve ending was on fire, very synapse in her brain was whirring, every part of her skin was flushed. She looked in the mirror, and her dark eyes were swirling with a shocking golden-orange. The tips of her curls seemed to spit fire, snapping and sparking as if alive.

It was painful, at first; and then the pain morphed into warmth, and her body was flooded with it. Her knees gave out from the overload of her senses, and, using the edge of the sink for support, she lowered herself to the floor.

The heat slowly faded, turning into a low simmer that receded to reside solely in her midsection. She took big, heaving breaths, the way Remus had showed her years before to handle stress. It worked. Within a minute, her heart rate had slowed, and she wiped away hot tears that she hadn't realized she'd shed. She lay back on the bathroom tile, unconcerned with how unsanitary it may have been; the coolness felt marvelous against her skin. She waited a moment or two, continuing to breathe, until she felt she could sit up. When she did, her head swam for a moment before she steadied.

She grabbed for her wand, but saw it on the floor all the way across the room. When she tried to summon it wandlessly and wordlessly, her fingertips heated and she saw the skin of her hand glowing eerily. It reminded her of when she was little, sitting in the dark with a flashlight and holding it against her fingers to see the way the light turned her fingertips reddish-orange because of the blood that ran under the skin. Except this was uncomfortable – when the light flared to life it felt as if a very sharp needle had pricked each of her fingers.

"All right!" she snapped, resentful. "Obviously you don't want me using Bellatrix's old wand – but why? It's a perfectly good wand. I've made it _my_ wand. I've _earned_ its loyalty. And it wasn't exactly easy, either, I'll have you know."

Her hand seemed to move of it's own accord, reaching down into her sock and pulling out her little shrunken bag. She stared at it.

"Absolutely not," she said, shaking her head. She knew what Fawkes wanted. "It's too dangerous."

Without warning the real Fawkes – or the one from this time, anyway – swooshed through the open window and landed next to her on the floor. She nearly screeched with surprise, but she was far too easily startled lately, and she resisted the urge.

"Now I'm outnumbered," she grumbled, struggling to meet Fawkes the phoenix's wise black eyes. She managed to look over at him, leveling him a glare. "I'm not going to use that wand."

Fawkes cocked his head to the right, as if to say "Why?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Because it's unpredictable!" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. "I've only used it a few times, and never around other people, just experimentally. And it's just _flashy._ My goal is to try to keep Tom Riddle's attention elsewhere. To try to be as ordinary and boring as possible. I have every intention of being so unremarkable that the young Lord Voldemort won't even see me. A few subtle notice-me-not charms will go a long way, too."

Fawkes just stared at her, and his future counterpart, trapped within her body and soul, gave off a ripple of energy that was purely negative.

She huffed. "You don't think that's a good idea?" she asked, looking at the Fawkes that was right in front of her. In response he picked up the tiny bag with his beak and set it on her lap.

She sighed and ran her hands over her face. "Yeah, I wasn't banking on absolute success with that either. Although I'm still going to try, whether you like it or not. But since you seem so determined to make sure I can no longer use my wand…" She rolled her eyes, unshrinking her bag and reaching an arm down inside. She stuck her head in as well, and then finally was on all fours, half of her body inside the bag. She cursed as she knocked over a stack of books that's sticking charm had obviously worn off. She would have to recast it later, so that things didn't go tumbling around in there. Finally she found what she was looking for, her fingers closing over a smooth wooden box the length of her forearm.

"Ah ha!" she said triumphantly. With some effort, she pulled herself back out and once again sat upon the floor. She stared at the box uneasily. She looked up at Fawkes, who watched her with kind, patient eyes. She swallowed, and then, taking a deep breath, opened it.

There it sat in its acacia box, nestled into a bed of velvet. One of the most beautiful wands she had ever seen. The most unusual thing about it, of course, was that it was a bright reddish _pink._

Not annoyingly so. Hermione wasn't a big fan of pink herself. But it was so bright and polished, so gorgeous and unique, that the deep, bright shade of it didn't bother her.

The wood was called pink ivory, a lovely, uncommon tree that was only found in certain parts of Africa. Its wood was extremely hard; unyielding, as Mister Ollivander would have said. Less than a hundred African witches and wizards carried wands of pink ivory. As the maker had explained to her, it was a very powerful wood, and had traits similar to what one might find with ebony, walnut, aspen and hornbeam. However, it reacted differently to each person; and would be loyal to that person for life. It could never be used by another.

As soon as Hermione had walked into that little hut in east Africa, the wand had flown out of its protective case and into her hand immediately. The elder, an ancient man with few teeth that spoke better English than Hermione would have expected, brought the case immediately to Hermione – without even officially meeting her or learning her name – and told her that she was the first person in half a century, since his grandfather had made the wand, that it had chosen. And, alas, it had hummed under her touch, and casting magic with the thing was a work of art in and of itself.

One thing set this wand apart, however. It was made with nundu heartstring, quickly harvested by the lucky wandmaker who had stumbled upon the freshly dead body of one. Nundus were considered to be the most dangerous creature alive – it reportedly took over a hundred wizards to subdue just one. They were perilous, unpredictable creatures, and the fact that this African tribesman in Zimbabwe had gotten his hands on a material so rare blew her mind. And because there wasn't a lot known about nundus to begin with, she did not have much to research; and Hermione hated things she couldn't research. She had no idea what sort of hidden properties a wand core like nundu heartstring might possess.

The power of the wand made Hermione _extremely_ nervous. For while dragon heartstring made for a powerful core, nundu heartstring was just as powerful, and was apparently known to sometimes have a mind of its own; it was far more unpredictable than any dragon heartstring core. The only reason she knew this was because the tribesman's grandson, Asha, was the only other person she knew who carried a wand of this same combination, though hers was 11 inches long and his had been 13. There had only been three ever made. Regardless, Hermione was insecure with her usage of it. It was no Elder Wand, not even close (thank Merlin – she didn't want that cursed wand anywhere near her), but it was able to channel extreme power, capable of both subtlety and what she liked to call "flash and bangs" magic.

Staring down at its smooth, polished form, she took the plunge and wrapped her hand around the end – the only "handle" was a slight swirling of the wood down at the bottom, designed to afford the user a better grip; not unlike Neville's and Ginny's wands had been. It hummed to life in her hand. Both Fawkeses cooed, and the one sitting on the floor with her ruffled his feathers. She swore she saw him smile.

"What do I do, though?" she said, biting her lip. She could feel her magic sink into the eye-catching wand, and could feel her own power more than ever before. "I'm about to go to class –" she said, looking up at the clock and finding that she had less than five minutes before Transfiguration started, "– and I don't even know what we're going to be doing. I've only ever done mundane magic with it before; easy things, just to test it out." Feeling brave, she cast a notice-me-not spell on herself. It took, but interestingly enough she felt a sort of…reluctance…from the wand. She stared down at it. "You aren't exactly amenable to going unnoticed, are you?" she asked it, feeling stupid for talking to a wand. It did not talk back, of course, but Fawkes ruffled his feathers again. The Fawkes inside of her pushed his own magic forth into her fingertips, and the wand vibrated as the fiery essence moved through it.

She looked again at Fawkes, and then to the wand, and then back to the phoenix. "So _you_ think that I should forego my plan to try to be unnoticeable." Fawkes merely looked at her, but his eyes were laughing. She remembered Harry saying something one time, though she couldn't remember the context: _"You're Hermione Granger – you don't_ _ **do**_ _mediocre."_ She sighed. Pretending to be an average, unremarkable person would be torture. The urge to do things right, to do things _well,_ was strong in her.

Nevertheless, Hermione placed the pink wand back in its protective casing and tossed it back in her bag. "Here's the deal," she said to Fawkes, crossing her arms and giving him a stern glare. "I won't go too far out of my way to be unnoticeable, but I'm not going to use that wand. Not yet, at least. I haven't used it enough to feel comfortable whipping it out in the middle of class around a bunch of students. So I'll keep using Bellatrix's wand for now, and I _don't_ want to hear any complaints about it from you, all right?"

She pulled herself to her feet, purposefully ignoring what she would _swear_ was mocking laughter in the wise black eyes of her phoenix friend. She tried summoning her wand from across the room again, and this time it rolled reluctantly across the floor and then hopped up into her hand with a tangible lack of enthusiasm. She sighed, and transfigured the hairbrush back into the bar of soap it had once been. It took her two tries before the magic did her bidding. She frowned but pocketed her wand, knowing she would have to come to terms with the fact that she would not be able to perform as well as usual.

But it was better for Riddle and the rest of the world to underestimate her, for now. It certainly couldn't hurt. And in her free time, she would practice with the pink ivory wand, and hope for the best.

* * *

oooo

Interestingly enough, the Granger girl entered the classroom just before Dumbledore's phoenix swooped into the room, promptly landing on its perch to the side of the old coot's desk. Tom noticed Dumbledore give her a peculiar look as she, keeping her curly head down, took her seat to the far right of the class, a small smirk playing across her face before it slipped back into neutrality. The phoenix watched her for a moment, chirped, and then looked away.

He had asked Mulciber to try to find out whatever he could about the girl, but Ambrose, who was one of his most trusted followers, hadn't been able to discern much – only that she was rather different than most of the other female students, was mostly well-liked, and had been through one hell of a war that had left her with many scars. It was too early. He would have to keep watching her. More than likely she was not a threat to him or to his plans; she was new here, after all – what could she possibly know? And while she had skill with a wand (or without a wand, rather), as he'd seen yesterday in the bathroom, she wouldn't be able to match him for power. He respected witches, but they weren't quite as powerful as wizards. And he'd never met a wizard more powerful than he. Grindewald and Dumbledore were the only real threats to him.

However, the recognition that had flashed in her eyes yesterday afternoon – the eyes that so unsettled him – gave him pause. He was probably being paranoid, but it never hurt to be cautious. He had too much at stake. It was impossible for her to know anything, but he would make sure he had a chance to get into her head to make sure.

"Good morning!"

Tom tuned Dumbledore out almost immediately, listening with only half an ear. Edmond Lestrange, who sat to his right, began to furiously scribble down notes; Edmond was very clever, and Tom appreciated that, but he did struggle with his grades some. He was not a good test-taker. Ambrose sat to his left, looking bored. Behind him, Nott and Rosier had their heads together and were whispering about something. Most likely a girl. Tom rolled his eyes. Nott was far more intelligent than Rosier, but they both had one thing in common: they were way too easily distracted by chasing skirts.

Tom had been practicing this particular spell every day for the past week, and, once he'd finally succeeded, he'd found that his horse's hind left leg was badly disfigured. Tom had immediately transfigured the stupid beast back into its original form, a knut.

The good thing was, nobody else had managed it either. Dumbledore was fond of challenging his students; it was the only thing Tom actually liked about the infuriating man. It was nice to have to put some thought into something. He was so used to everything being easy. Magic, knowledge, social interactions: it was all frighteningly simple. Every now and then Tom enjoyed a good struggle. So this, while irritating, was just another thing to overcome. And he would become the best at it. Because he was always the best. At everything. And that was not his ego talking – it was simply a fact.

He finally managed to be the first one in the class to transfigure his knut into a horse – a great big slate grey beast that was missing its tail and, once again, lame in the back leg. But it was a start. He smirked as everyone in the class oohed and aahed.

"Very good, Tom!" Dumbledore said in his obnoxiously cheery voice. "That's much better than last week. By next week, I'm sure it will be perfect." His eyes twinkled with suspicion. The Deputy Headmaster had never trusted Tom, and that grated on his nerves. He had been so sure that Dumbledore was somehow going to figure out that Tom had been responsible for Myrtle Warren's death nearly two years ago. There was no evidence, however, and Tom had banished the basilisk back to its chamber, not to reappear unless he wished it.

"Thank you Professor," he said, putting on his most charming smile. "I've been studying quite a bit the last few days."

"Excellent," the old man said, his smile just as smooth and as fake as Tom's. "Keep practicing."

Tom followed the man's trajectory to the other side of the classroom, where, much to his amusement, Hermione Granger sat at her desk next to Snowborn, her forehead pillowed on her arms. If not for the minute twitches to her hands and body, she could easily have been asleep.

"Miss Granger?" Dumbledore said, laying a hand on her back. "Are you well?"

"Oh I'm fine, Professor," Hermione said smoothly. She gave him a smile, insincere only to those who made it their business to know how to read people.

Dumbledore smiled back at her. "Are you so accomplished in the art of transfiguration that you don't need to practice?" the professor asked, his tone very light, with undertones of amusement, and, strangely enough, suspicion. "You realize that participation is part of your grade."

Her eyes were full of laughter and scorn. She maintained her lovely, charming, artificial smile. "Of course, sir. So sorry. Perhaps I just didn't get enough rest last night."

Most of the class turned around to watch as she dropped her knut to the floor and pointed her dark crooked wand at it, muttering an incantation under her breath. Air swirled around the knut, and it transformed before his eyes. The horse that she had created was reddish-gold in color, but much smaller than it should have been. Three of its legs were twisted and stunted, and one of its eyes was abnormally large and glazed over with cataracts. It was in worse condition than Tom's had been in, and for some reason he sighed in relief, as if he had been afraid that she would best him.

Still, she had come close – closer than any of the other students. He would have to continue to keep an eye on her.

Dumbledore only inclined his head and then vanished the horse with a wave of his wand. "Very good, Miss Granger. Keep practicing. I'll expect your essay on how size and life forms affect the method of transfiguration on my desk by next period."

"Yes sir," she replied, smiling tightly but still looking at the professor with those strange eyes. Her wand had disappeared.

The rest of the class stared at her a little while longer as she nonchalantly took out her book and a sheet of parchment and began on her essay. Annoyingly, her eyes casually swept the room and her gaze washed right over him without a single hint of acknowledgement. Irritation bubbled in his chest, and then he was looking back to his own knut again, determined to practice harder.

It was only Transfiguration, he told himself. She was unlikely to be anywhere near as good as he was at Legilimency and Occlumency, if she even knew them at all, and she wouldn't be able to beat him in a duel, war or no war; that's what really mattered.

She was just a witch with pretty magic and an even prettier face. And besides, she had not expressed any interest in him just now, which was good, however annoying he found it; she was the first witch _not_ to openly express interest in him. She was not concerned with him and his plans. She was here to go to school, get away from a war, and try to get her friend healed. And while she might be intriguing, yes, and apparently skillful with a wand, and however fascinated he might be with those eyes that held everything and nothing at the same time; well, she didn't matter, in the long run. None of it mattered. He had things to do; he just needed to get through this last year of school.

He turned back to his copper coin. With a shake of his head, she was out of his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

If knowledge is power, clandestine knowledge is power squared; it can be withheld, exchanged, and leveraged. -Letty Cottin

There are two different stories in horror: internal and external. In external horror films, the evil comes from the outside, the other tribe, this thing in the darkness that we don't understand. Internal is the human heart. –John Carpenter

* * *

oooo

 _Thursday, January 6, 2000_

 _Number 12 Grimmauld Place_

 _Hermione groans in frustration, watching Bellatrix's old wand produce feeble tendrils of silver light that vanish almost as soon as they appear. Suddenly, inexplicitly angry, she throws her wand across the room and screams, heartbreak and rage and grief and disappointment all coming together in a whirlwind of feeling that has her dropping to her knees. Unaware of how her emotional state affects the space around her, Hermione unintentionally releases a burst of wandless magic that has all of the books in the Black family library falling from their shelves._

 _As she kneels there on the old, frayed rug and continues to release dry-eyed sobs of defeat, she is unaware that she has an audience._

" _Can you teach me?"_

 _The curly-haired witch jolts, and instinctively she calls out in her mind for her wand and it is in her hand in less than a second. She stands on shaky legs._

 _Narcissa Malfoy looks entirely unaffected by this adroit show of battle-honed instinct, and sits delicately on the dusty library couch in a casually elegant, finely made gown the color of sea glass. She wears soft cotton robes of the darkest blue, casually slung around her shoulders and unbuttoned. She is the very picture of stylish elegance, and Hermione can't help but realize that, despite Grimmauld Place's dusty and outdated décor, Lady Malfoy has that rare ability to be able to look at ease almost anywhere. If she decided to travel into Muggle London wearing this outfit she would somehow manage to fit right in. Because that is what she does – what she was raised for. Unshakable poise and ownership of oneself. Hermione can only hope that someday she might be able to pull it off; she doubts it._

" _Lady Malfoy," she mumbles in greeting, not meeting the woman's eyes, which are cold and grey like her son's. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I had left the door open. I hope I didn't startle you?"_

 _Narcissa gives her a very small smile, which, though subtle, is still kind. "It takes far more than a little much-needed stress relief to shock me, Miss Granger," she says. "I have seen more than my fair share of anxious outbursts. Especially as a mother."_

" _I see," Hermione replies, scratching an itch on her nose. She shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable._

 _Narcissa speaks again, gracefully filling the awkward silence with her smooth, cultured voice. "I know you've been unable to conjure your corporeal Patronus and that it is a source of intense disquiet with you. Mister Potter has mentioned how much you've been struggling with it. But I thought, perhaps, that you might still be able to teach it to someone, or at least the theory behind it, anyway. I've never cast a Patronus – I've never had cause to, and because it is very Light magic it was not exactly a staple in my household, before or after I married. Draco, against all odds, has managed to accomplish it. But Pansy and I have never tried."_

 _Hermione shifts again and shuffles over to the armchair that sits diagonal from the sofa, a cloud of dust rising up into the air when she unceremoniously plops down onto it. She slouches, watching the dust rise and travel across the room, and it seems to sparkle when it floats into rays of sunshine._

 _She exhales heavily. "Harry is a much better teacher than I will ever be, Mrs. Malfoy," she says, cracking her knuckles in a manner that has Narcissa twitching uncomfortably, obviously unsettled, the only ripple in the otherwise still pool of water that the beautiful blonde woman reflects._

" _I am aware that Potter is uncommonly gifted in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but, as I am given to understand, so are you. Second only to Harry and Alastor and perhaps Dumbledore himself, while he still lived, and far more well-read than any of them, I would venture to guess." She pauses, fixing Hermione with a determined gaze. "I also learn better with a more clinical approach, and I feel that Potter is perhaps a little too zealous and emotional in his teaching. He doesn't have the patience that you have, your little tantrum just now notwithstanding."_

 _Hermione blushes under the praise (and the following criticism), knowing on some level that it is true but embarrassed all the same. The old Hermione, the one still in school, would have preened and beamed with pride. Those things no longer matter, however; they are no longer important to her._

" _I…" She swallows. "I can try, I suppose. Is Pansy available, er…now?" she asks, rubbing the back of her neck. "No time like the present, I suppose." Her tone strives to be cheerful and light, but falls just short of sincere. She grimaces._

 _It takes Narcissa two days worth of lessons to conjure a corporeal Patronus, an elegant, silvery spider that crawls from the tip of her wand. The garden spider – a leggy orb weaver that most people in the northern hemisphere recognize by its vibrant yellow and black geometric pattern – is content to sit and spin its beautiful web, its master having set no task for it and sensing no dementors nearby. The look on the Malfoy matriarch's face is worth the struggle, to Hermione. It is a look of unguarded wonder, plainly seen on a face that is usually schooled into a mask of careful indifference._

 _Pansy finally manages a successful Patronus after nearly two weeks of constant practice. When a mercurial vixen steps leisurely out of the tip of her wand, stretching, the former Slytherin jumps up and down and throws her arms around Hermione, hugging her tightly as her fox (who she names Velvet) prances haughtily around them on little stocking-ed paws. Hermione flushes with uncomfortable heat when she is reminded that Seamus' Patronus had been a fox._

 _The two former spies are not the only ones to catch on to Hermione's teaching skills. When she spends hours and days on end with an emotionally unstable Parvati Patil, recently bereft of her twin sister, Hermione snaps, irritated, and points her wand, muttering the incantation just to_ _ **show**_ _the sometimes painfully dense girl how to go about it. Her power surges within her and she almost cries with joy when a spectral white lioness shoots from her wand and roars deafeningly, tail twitching._

 _However, she is so used to her sleek, playful otter that she falters, surprised, and the lion vanishes with her concentration. It is then, while Parvati replicates the process and produces a lovely butterfly, that she realizes that she has changed, fundamentally and permanently. And she knows that she will never see her otter again._

 _And it makes her sad for all that she has lost. So she sits down right there on the floor and cries, a ghostly monarch dancing around her head until it dissipates, along with her old self, never to return._

 _Parvati dies the very next day._

* * *

oooo

After their little encounter in the bathroom, Hermione made a point of ignoring Tom Riddle for an entire week.

She took the next few days off; something the old Hermione never would have done, but that the new one didn't mind in the least. She spent some time with Dumbledore, allowed him to see some of her memories; she didn't give him details – it wouldn't do to have him looking at Tom Riddle too closely while she was trying to navigate the shark-infested waters around him – but she made sure he knew enough to satisfy his curiosity…at least for a little while.

With his permission, and the Headmaster's –Dippet was decidedly less savvy in the ways of treachery than his successor, so he was a delightful pushover, startlingly easy to manipulate – she skipped her classes on Thursday afternoon and Friday to take care of some "business." Before she went she put a mild notice-me-not charm on herself, simply so she wouldn't attract any undue attention, and plaited her unruly hair back into a tight braid. Once again, she struggled to get her wand to obey her, despite how easy the charm had been to her in the past. It frustrated her.

Her first stop on Thursday was to Diagon Alley. Despite Dumbledore's generosity and the amount of things Hermione had stowed away in her little purple bag, there were still supplies that she needed for school. Or perhaps not necessarily needed, but _wanted._ If there was one thing she hated, it was working with mediocre school supplies. She also bought herself some new clothes true to 1940s style, both wizarding and muggle, and picked some up for Draco as well – he would need something to wear other than uniforms when he woke up.

She also got a cat. An impulsive purchase, perhaps, but, she thought, necessary to her sanity. Hermione named the female Abyssinian kitten Narcissa. The haughty look the tiny, big-eared cat wore made her instantly fall in love with it, and she just couldn't help herself. The little kitten was very quiet but very curious, and Hermione let her ride around in her inner coat pocket for most of the day; she seemed to be very happy there, peeking out from between Hermione's lapels, snuggled up next to the warmth of her heart. She was no Crookshanks, but she had her own kind of charm. And was far prettier, if Hermione was being honest.

On Friday she and Narcissa went back to Diagon Alley and spent a good hour at the Leaky Cauldron talking to Tom the bartender (yes, he was around in 1944, and didn't look a whole lot younger, either), bribing him for information about the state of affairs in the current British Ministry and the wizarding world in general. If Hermione was going to be stuck in this era – she had yet to do more research into time travel, but Albus had said he would look into it for her – then she needed to plan for the future. And those plans did not only concern what to do about Tom Riddle (though the jury was still out on that particular strategy). She would need to insert herself into this time and place, and she needed to know all of the players that she would be in the game with.

Secondly, she went to a little known hole in the wall in Knockturn Alley, a place she had had to go to before in order to get out of the country so long ago. International wizarding travel, much like muggle transit, often required identification and papers if one was to acquire a portkey or floo across borders. Hermione had once had to come here under a different name and face to acquire false papers for many members of the Order. She would need such identification again now, although this time she could use her real name and face. She needed an official identity if she was going to do anything, and it would also be wise to back up her story, which meant she would need some documentation for her fake parents, as well; she would need to repeat the process with Draco. The lone woman in the little trinket store – a front for the real business going on behind the scenes – smiled a toothless smile when Hermione tossed her a bag of coins upon entering. She immediately ushered Hermione to the back.

After Hermione left the counterfeit paper business, she went straight to Gringotts. Using her new papers, she opened an account there under her name, putting Draco's name down as a cosigner to the account so that he could access it if needed. It was mostly just a formality; they had all the funds they needed in their little beaded bag. But she put a portion of their money in her new account, along with a lot of the things that she wouldn't need to carry around with her and that she didn't want anyone else to ever be privy to – namely all of the things that hadn't yet been made. She kept all of her books, though. She was unwilling to part with those. She used the _Imperius_ curse on a goblin to get him to skip the part where she made an inventory (for their eyes only, of course, but she was unwilling to take that chance) of the items in her vault for insurance purposes. She felt a modicum of guilt creep up as she released the goblin from her spell…and then she remembered Griphook and his scheming ways. The guilt promptly disappeared.

If Draco and she both died, the money would go to Dumbledore to look after until Harry and Ron were born, and then it would be anonymously split between the Potter family and the Weasley family. Hermione thought it was a nice touch.

After her business in Diagon Alley was done, she apparated to a place she had only ever seen in Harry's memories. As such it was a risky apparition, especially considering her wand was no longer cooperating fully, but she managed. Narcissa mewled in her coat as Hermione landed jarringly on a grassy slope that overlooked Little Hangleton. Catching her balance as she squeezed back into existence, she looked around to get her bearings.

She stood on grassy knoll outside of town, looking down at the village. It was dreadfully quiet. The church and its infamous graveyard sat on the opposite hill, grey and stony. Turning around, she looked up, and saw the outline of the handsome Riddle estate, as tall and foreboding as its only heir.

She looked to where a creek bubbled past the house, carrying a few fallen leaves, the first of the season, down into the woods to disappear from her sight. Making sure her kitten was sheltered from the wind in her coat, she followed the stream's winding path.

After Hermione walked for a few minutes, the trees became thicker and more difficult to navigate. When she saw a black snake slither out from underneath her boot and out of sight, she knew she was in the right place. She quickly came upon a shack, achingly familiar; identical to the one she had seen in Harry's memory.

The decrepit structure was nearly completely hidden in a tangle of trees, shadowed by thick foliage and a myriad of branches. It was a mixture of stone and wood, and moss and ivy covered what little she could see of its sagging walls. A narrow slab of wood served as a door and, as expected, the skin of a snake was nailed to the door. Her lips quirked up when she sensed the powerful enchantments that surrounded the building; after minutes of some very adroit wand work, made especially difficult with Bellatrix's uncooperative wand, she cracked Tom Riddle's wards. With a feeling of great trepidation, she pushed open the poor excuse for a door and ducked inside.

It was dark, hopelessly dark; the only window in the little hovel was broken and overgrown with vines, shutting out all potential sunlight. Hermione lit her wand, peering about with discerning eyes. It smelled of rotted wood and mildew. A single cot was pushed against the far wall, and a chipped pot of blue pottery sat in the corner. Grinning in triumph, she walked over to the pot and pushed it aside. Underneath there was a loose floorboard, and with anticipation she pried it up and her greedy fingers found what had been hiding underneath.

A worn black velvet pouch with moth-eaten drawstrings sat, unassumingly, in her hand. She opened the top and dropped the contents onto the wooden floor with a _clink_.

Hermione stared at the ugly ring. It was crudely made, clumsy and chunky and set in gaudy gold, and she snorted at the thought of the young Tom Riddle wearing such an unsightly thing on his elegant hand. She felt its dark magic slide across her own magical aura like something cold and foul and slimy. She did not dare touch it – she was not quite as knowledgeable as Albus Dumbledore was at cracking dark curses, and she remembered, with a sudden flash of sorrow, how ill he had become after destroying the horcrux housed inside. An image of his black, withered hand entered her mind. She frowned.

The fact that it was actually the fabled Resurrection Stone was surreal. She'd never seen it in person – only Harry had, before he'd dropped it in the Forbidden Forest on the way to his death (however temporary it may have been). She wondered, suddenly: did Harry's love magic protect her here in this time, or was it considered null and void? If Riddle were to successfully hit her with the Killing Curse, would she die, or would the curse rebound as it had when Harry's mother had died for him? Would she end up with a scar?

The question now was, did she take it and attempt to destroy it later? Or did she leave it where it was and come back in the future? She knew that Riddle wouldn't move it…unless her being here had already irreparably changed the timeline, in which case he might place it elsewhere and then she might never find it again, nor would the future Dumbledore that would come to destroy it.

She decided to leave it, picking it up with the bag protecting her fingers and drawing the string closed once again. Before she raised the wards back around the house, she put a very small detection spell on the blue pot; it would alert her immediately if the pot were moved. Then she made sure to leave everything exactly as she'd found it, down to the last thread of magic.

When she apparated back into Hogsmeade on Friday evening, satisfied, Dumbledore was waiting for her. They walked, in silence, to where he had a thestral-drawn carriage waiting for them. She patted one of the strange, silent beasts on the neck.

"So you see them," Dumbledore said, watching her with solemn blue eyes.

She looked back at him with a sardonic smile on her face. "Did you ever doubt?"

He shrugged. "Not after some of the memories you let me see, not really, no. But seeing you touch one with my own eyes is another matter. It grieves me that one so young carries such a burden."

Hermione hummed. "You didn't exactly lighten the load, Albus."

Her former mentor, someone that she would have trusted implicitly once upon a time, sighed and held open the carriage door for her. "Tell me more."

Thanking him, she climbed in, careful to protect Narcissa's little head from getting bumped. She stared at him as he sat in the seat across from her and the covered cart began to move.

"Firstly, did you find the books that I asked you for?" she inquired, referring to the tomes on time-travel and phoenixes that she wanted to look over.

He nodded. "They are safely in my office."

"Excellent," she said, adjusting her coat. "Then second, I need to ask you to be careful about how much you are seen communicating with me outside of class; and how much attention you draw to me _during_ class. For example, the little fiasco in Transfiguration Wednesday morning. Next time, just ignore me."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "I understand. Can you tell me why?"

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in stress that she rarely showed anyone these days. "I have my eye on one of your students, and I don't want them to suspect that I have a relationship with you outside of the typical teacher and student one; I also don't want to let this particular person in on the scope of my abilities _just_ yet, although I think they already have some idea."

"You speak of Tom Riddle."

She looked up at him, her face serious. "Yes." Her confirmation was simple and to the point. No use denying something he very clearly already knew.

Dumbledore sighed. "I knew that boy was trouble from the moment I met him in that orphanage all those years ago."

"Indeed." She wanted to tell him that he became more than just "trouble." But she kept her mouth shut. She would reveal things to Dumbledore as time passed, but too much at one time could prove to be a very bad decision indeed.

"And can you tell me your plans for him?" Dumbledore asked, cutting straight to the point. "I admit, as I am used to being the one doing all the plotting, I am a little out of my depth here."

"That's why you need to trust me to know what I'm doing, Professor," she said, petting Narcissa absentmindedly on the head. "Look: you once would have trusted me with _any_ task that you knew needed doing. I was one of your most reliable tools."

"Tools?"

"We were all your tools once, Albus."

He had the decency to look ashamed. "Once again, I am at a loss for what to do or say."

"Then stay out of my way," she said. "I will tell you as much as you need to know – no more, no less. I will keep you in the loop as best as I can. But right now I'm just trying to figure out what the best plan of action is. Draco and I have already changed things just by being here. As much as I would like to figure out how to get back to the future, perhaps the best thing to do now is just play this game here in the past."

Boldly, she reached out and rested her hand on top of his, giving it a squeeze. "Dark times are coming, Professor," she said. "And right now I'm caught right on the edge of the storm."

* * *

oooo

That weekend she stayed at the castle, researching and studying, watching from the bell towers on Saturday as students trickled down to Hogsmeade one by one, tiny ants marching against the rapidly browning grass. The shades of fall tinged the leaves on the trees, painting the woods with shades of russet and copper and butterscotch. Even the Forbidden Forest looked slightly cheerier with the onset of such warm colors.

She sighed and turned away, ruffling Fawkes feathers with her hand. The bird had taken to sitting with her at times when she was alone, and would sometimes follow her around the grounds at a distance just to keep an eye on her. If anyone had noticed, they hadn't said anything. Albus thought it was quite amusing. Hermione had told him about her encounter with Fawkes in her time, but she had not revealed that he was still technically _in_ her body. That was a secret that she would keep to herself for now, until Draco woke up.

She spent most of the weekend reading aloud to him and catching up on her studies by his bedside. Occasionally Sabrina, Lyall, Kat and Ignatius would visit, eager to have her back in classes with them the following week. She often brought Narcissa, who she'd taken to calling "Cissa," to the infirmary with her, letting her snuggle into the warmth of Draco's body. The little kitten would occasionally walk up his bare torso to snuffle around his face, and Hermione, letting her juvenile side come out to play, vindictively snapped photos of them with the old-fashioned camera she'd bought, chortling at the picture they made.

Sunday evening, after finishing her essay for Transfiguration and reading Draco a chapter out of _Hogwarts: A History_ and a story from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ , she packed up her things, kissed Draco on the forehead, and went back up to Gryffindor Tower.

When she arrived, Lyall and Ignatius and two other seventh year boys were playing a game of exploding snap in the common room; despite their urging of her to join them, she felt a tired ache settle behind her eyes, and she declined, continuing on to her dormitory. When she got there, she walked in on all four of her dorm mates sitting on their beds and giggling. Even Zuri was participating, though she did so with so much eye rolling and snobbery that Hermione wanted to laugh out loud.

"Let's see what Hermione thinks!" she heard Iris say, and she looked up to meet the mischievous, sky-blue eyes of the prettiest girl in school.

"Uh oh," she said warily, grinning at them. She set her bag down, removed her robes and sat down on her bed in the stylish fall dress and boots she'd worn that day. She noticed the girls give their imperceptible nods of approval. Thank god for Pansy's influence; though adhering to the 1940s style of dress had been somewhat difficult. She was used to the freedom of modern clothing. Wearing stockings and garters and sometimes even girdles was fast becoming tiring, and it had only been a few days. "What sort of nonsense are you roping me into?"

Iris giggled. Cissa was cuddled up with the blonde on her bed, purring in contentment. "We're discussing boys, of course."

"Well of course. What else?" Hermione struggled not to roll her eyes. Zuri had no such restraint, but she did so with a smile on her face. They shared a knowing glance.

"Who do you think is the most attractive boy in the school right now?" Iris asked. "I know you've only been here a few days, but still. What do you think?"

Hermione's face fell. She couldn't help but think of Ron. Ron had never been some model type: he had not been visually striking like Harry, or as painfully handsome as Draco, or as darkly alluring and utterly perfect as Tom Riddle. But he had been _hers,_ and she had loved him.

"Well, I think Draco's very handsome," she said obviously, pulling her boots off one by one. "But he's my best friend. I've been looking at his face for years now."

Sabrina hummed in agreement. "Oh, he's _so_ handsome," she said, her voice low and dreamy. "Sign me up."

"What?" Iris said. "I haven't even seen him! That's not fair!"

"He's laying in the hospital wing, Iris," Kat said with a roll of her eyes. "He literally could not be any easier to find. And yes, he's the prettiest thing I've seen on these school grounds in quite a while; except for, well, you know."

All the girls nodded. Hermione frowned. "Except for, you know, who?" she asked.

She knew what Iris was going to say before she said it. "Tom Riddle, of course! God, he's bloody _gorgeous,"_ she said, rolling over onto her stomach. "If he even so much as looked at me by _accident_ I would melt into a puddle of goo." The other girls smiled and tittered in agreement.

"You're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen, Iris," Hermione said – and it was the truth. "Why wouldn't he look at you? I'm a _girl_ , and I can barely keep my eyes off of you. I would think that any boy would jump at the chance to talk to you." As Narcissa – the human, not the cat – had once told her: flattery can get you anywhere with almost anyone. And anytime Tom Riddle's name came up, Hermione's ears perked. So she used everything she had ever been taught by her best friends – most of who had ended up being Slytherins, ironically enough – and went digging for information.

"Ugh," Iris groaned, flopping back over on to her back dramatically. "He _never_ gets involved with girls. Last year he took Druella Rosier to one of Slughorn's parties, but he ignored her for practically the whole night. And he can't do that again this year, because now she's _betrothed_ to Black. But I've never seen him look at any girl with anything other than total objectivity."

Hermione resisted the evil smile that begged to curve on her lips. Instead she adopted a look of consternation. "Well it sounds to me like he might be batting for the other team, if you know what I mean," she said.

All the girls blinked up at her. "Batting for the other team?" Zuri said, confused.

"It's a muggle term," Hermione explained, realizing that in this day in age in the wizarding world homosexuality was not necessarily something that was talked about, although it was not necessarily frowned upon like it was in the muggle world, either. She also realized that these girls would never get a baseball reference. "You know…meaning that he might be _gay."_

The seed was planted. She so wished she would be able to see the look on Riddle's face when it got back to him.

The girls all gasped. "I mean," she continued, hiding her glee, "why else would he never pay attention to a girl? There's no shortage of beautiful girls in this school. Even if he wanted to remain within his own house, Raven Flynn and Violet Greengrass are both gorgeous and otherwise unengaged." She'd only seen Greengrass a couple of times in the halls, but she had actually been partnered with Flynn during Advanced Potions on Thursday morning, and could attest to the girl's beauty and intelligence (she'd actually taken a shine to the Slytherin, but she would need to do some more research before she decided to cultivate a relationship with her). "I mean I'm not saying he is, but it's the only thing that really makes sense," she finished, leaning back on her hands.

Aaaand her work was done.

"Oh Merlin, you're absolutely right!" said Iris, smacking her hand into her forehead. "Why didn't I see it sooner?"

"You were too busy gazing at the line of his jaw," Zuri said, and Kat laughed.

"He is always surrounded by that little gang of his…" Sabrina said, drumming her fingers against her bedspread. "What is it that you think they do all the time when they're not in class or at meals? They're almost always together, and sometimes they just…disappear."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Do you think…"

They all looked at one another and then burst out laughing. Hermione was surprised to find that she was genuinely in good spirits.

"No way!" Kat said, her cheeks red with mirth. "I saw Gavin Rosier and Felicity Carmichael stumble out of a broom closet last semester – there was no doubt in my mind what they'd been doing. And he's got quite the reputation," she said, wiggling her eyebrows. "So, I heard, does Nott."

Iris hummed. "Thoros is definitely not gay," she said, winking at them all. They giggled. "And I know that Temple snogged Mulciber in our fifth year, and she said he seemed like he had done it before," she said, speaking of her Hufflepuff friend Temple Bones.

Hermione stood and began to root through her trunk for her pajamas. "Well, I don't know any of these guys besides what I learn from all of you. Perhaps Riddle is completely straight, he just has other things on his mind."

They all looked at her and paused. "Like Edmond's skinny arse in a nice pair of trousers?" Kat said, and they all burst into hysterics again.

When Hermione had laughed herself hoarse, she continued to undress. As she had her back to them things got deadly quiet all of a sudden. She turned around as she tugged on her nightgown. They were all staring at her.

"What?" she asked, looking around at the four gaping faces.

"Your back, Hermione," said Sabrina, her voice soft. "You've always changed with your front to us. What on earth _happened?"_

"Oh," Hermione said, blushing, pulling her nightgown back up over her shoulders and craning her head to look at the topographical map that was her back. "Are you talking about the burn or the scars?" she asked, referring to the burn that was only just beginning to crust over and the four raised slashes that sliced horizontally across her lower back, much older.

"Both!" Iris said incredulously, looking horrified. "I thought the ones on your stomach and leg were bad. I neglected to notice those."

Hermione shrugged again, slightly uncomfortable. Once again, in the face of Iris' exceptional beauty and her smooth, polished skin, Hermione felt a niggle of shame. "The burn was from the most recent battle I was in – before I escaped to Hogwarts. It was some sort of spell. Dark magic," she explained, her voice solemn; Macnair's crooked grin flashed across her memory. If possible, their eyes got even wider. "The scars are from a particularly bad tempered manticore."

"Blimey Hermione!" Kat said, boldly getting up and walking over to run her finger over the raised scars. She wisely avoided the burn. The girl was unflinchingly forward, Hermione would give her that; it was odd, but Ginny had been similarly unconcerned with such boundaries and Hermione had gotten used to it over the years. "What does a manticore even look like? I vaguely remember seeing a picture of one in my COMC text, but we've never really spent any time learning about them in class."

"They're foul," she said with a scowl, remembering the visage of the slavering beast that had chased Draco and her through the rocky desert of western Kazakhstan. "A lion's body and a scorpion's tail, made all the more unsettling with a human face and the ability to speak."

Iris shuddered. "Ugh. That sounds awful."

Hermione smiled. "It almost bit a chunk out of Draco's arse though," she said, chuckling. "You should have seen his face."

Sabrina pouted. "It's such a nice arse, though."

Zuri snorted. "That's probably why that manticore decided to try a taste."

They all giggled.

"I'm glad that you're here, Hermione," Sabrina said, her eyes kind. "I'm sure it feels nice to know you're safe in Hogwarts."

Hermione smiled gently in agreement. They all settled down and blew out their lanterns. She turned over onto her side, facing away from them all. If only they knew just how unsafe they all really were.

That night, she could have sworn she woke up to the sound of scales sliding along cement.

* * *

oooo

Hermione made it a point to avoid Tom Riddle for as long as she was able the next week. She remembered something that Snape had once told her in a quiet, unexpected moment of advice in her third year, after Draco had made her cry: " _Learn to ignore your enemies, Miss Granger. Nothing annoys them so much."_

Monday morning she had breakfast, Double Herbology with Ravenclaw, lunch, Charms with Slytherin, and History of Magic with Ravenclaw. She didn't see him at all on Monday until Charms that afternoon.

Herbert Burke was the Charms professor. Hermione found him to be a decent teacher, if a bit cold and aloof; he had been a Slytherin, after all, and he had married into the Black family, the only Hogwarts staff that had a spouse. The fact that he was related to whatever Burke had helped found Borgin and Burkes made Hermione's skin crawl. However, he seemed nice enough, if not a bit cool, and though she caught him staring at her several times throughout the class, he did not treat her specially, which she actually appreciated. He never called her out, nor did he attempt to introduce her to the class (everybody already knew who she was anyway, because of the sorting ceremony and the rumor mill); however, when he instructed the class to practice non-verbal summoning charms and wandless _Lumos_ charms and realized that she was one of three (Tom Riddle and Ambrose Mulciber being the other two) that got both right on the first try, he quietly congratulated her and seemed pleased at her success. She felt Riddle's eyes boring into the back of her head all throughout class. She skipped the optional Dueling Club that evening, despite Lyall's urging that she join them. She didn't want a confrontation with Tom or any member of his little gang this early in the game.

She wasn't sure if it was due to her wanting to avoid attention, or if she just couldn't handle the prospect of dueling with a wand that didn't work and subsequently losing as a result. Hermione hated losing. And while she had taken her failure in Transfiguration last Wednesday with a grain of salt (even though she had been nearly as successful as Riddle with the spell, if she'd still been compatible with her wand she would have nailed it – therefore she saw it as a failure), she didn't think she would be able to handle losing in a duel to a Death Eater. Just the thought of doing so made her bristle with irritation and wounded pride.

On Tuesday she had Double Charms with Hufflepuff, Advanced Runes and Advanced Astronomy later that night. She shared both of the latter classes with Tom Riddle (as all advanced classes included all four houses) and yet managed to sit as far away from him as possible in both. Eldora Alvarado, the Ancient Runes professor, was both very capable and very beautiful, though she did have a flare for the dramatic; she reminded Hermione of if the Disney characters Esmeralda and Pocahontas had somehow had a lovechild. The Astronomy professor and Head of Hufflepuff House, Perpetua Fancourt, was a plump, middle-aged redhead that was far too cheery for Hermione's liking and tended to talk to her students like they were all first years.

She ignored Riddle all day Wednesday, as well. She had Transfiguration class with the Slytherins again, in which they practiced the same knut-to-horse spell as they had last week – except this time Professor Dumbledore left her alone as they had discussed, and she merely sat and worked on homework for other classes, occasionally working on a spell just to keep up appearances as being a somewhat above-average but otherwise unremarkable student. She didn't have to worry during DADA theory with the Ravenclaws; though being under the perceptive grey gaze of Professor Galatea Merrythought was almost just as bad as being the focus of Riddle's attention. She managed to avoid Tom at lunch as well – she'd fared well through all of her meals, sticking resolutely at the Gryffindor table except for when Iris had brought her over to the Hufflepuff table to introduce her to some of her friends.

Of course, her luck was bound to run out sometime, and Wednesday afternoon seemed to be the limit. What would follow would kick off her ensuing relationship with Tom Marvolo Riddle, however dark and tumultuous it was bound to be.

oooo

* * *

 **And so it begins. The next chapter is where things start to heat up a bit. Hermione's dark side comes out to play, as well as the dark sense of humor that she doesn't often show in polite company. *** **Cue Darth Vader mouth breathing** *****

 **Review, pretty please! Love you guys. :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks so much for all of your supportive reviews! I'm telling you, nothing spurs on updates quite like reviews.**

 **That was a hint, in case you were wondering.**

 **On to the show! Hermione's inner anger monster makes an appearance in this chapter. It might seem out of character, but trust me, she's not stable. As the story goes on, you'll get a deeper look into her psyche and exactly why she is the way she is. And don't worry, she doesn't just snap and become some monster all of a sudden. She just has a few dark moments every now and again (well, perhaps there's more darkness than light at this point, but let's not split hairs). Just believe me when I say that things will all come together in due time.**

* * *

oooo

Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats. -H.L. Mencken

The idea that women are innately gentle is a fantasy, and a historically recent one. Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction, is depicted as wreathed in male human skulls; the cruel entertainments of the Romans drew audiences as female as they were male; Boudicca led her British troops bloodily into battle. –Naomi Wolf

No one wants to spend too long inside their own darkness. – Nick Nolte

* * *

oooo

 _Friday, December 1, 2000_

 _Number 12 Grimmauld Place_

" _Hermione…" Harry begins, his voice hesitant. "That curse, Probilium…you know what kind of curse that is – what it can do to you. Why do you keep using it? Why do you travel the world searching for darkness? Why do you throw yourself into creating new spells, each worse than the last? What is all of this supposed to accomplish?"_

 _She faces him, her eyes hard and hot. "We've already had this conversation, Harry. I know the risks, and I'm choosing to take them anyway. Do you understand, Harry, that this is the only way to beat them? Do you understand that they won't stop, that they_ _ **will never stop,**_ _unless we show them the same misery that they have been inflicting upon us? We aren't in school anymore," she says darkly. "This is a higher form of war, and it's dark, and nasty, and NOBODY fucking prepared us for it, and I'm so BLOODY tired of it! I want these bastards dead and in the ground, Harry."_

 _He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. "I understand your anger – you know I do," he says, more softly this time. "But is it worth your soul? Is it worth this internal struggle? Why do you have to go about it this way, 'Mione?"_

" _BECAUSE I WANT THEM TO SUFFER, HARRY!" she shouts, angry tears running swiftly down her face. "I want them to feel pain, and I want them to know I was the one who caused it!"_

 _Her best friend exhales through his nose, sighing. "I know, Hermione. Believe me, I know. Just…don't lose yourself to the darkness, all right? Mastering Bellatrix's wand, inventing all of these awful spells, seeing the revenge in your eyes every time you take a life. I can't bear the thought of getting through this eternal war only to have lost you somewhere along the way. I need you to stay the same, 'Mione, or at least be recognizable. Because if I survive this, I'm going to need you by my side, and I'm going to need you to be strong."_

 _She sits heavily in an armchair, energy suddenly drained. "I know Harry, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," she whispers. "I want to be strong for you. I_ _ **will**_ _be strong for you, alright?" She grabs his hand and squeezes, and he squeezes back. "Don't worry," she assures him. "I'll keep a lid on it, I promise. I won't let it go too far. We'll get through this together, all right?"_

 _He smiles at her, his eyes gentle. "Yeah. Hey listen, do you want some coffee? Charlie just brought in a new shipment, it's supposed to be pretty good stuff."_

 _She smiles, but it does not reach her eyes. If he notices it then he does not comment, but she doubts it has slipped by him. Harry knows her better than anyone, and is much more perceptive than he used to be. "Of course, Harry, that sounds great. A touch of cream, no sugar, you know how I like it."_

 _He grins and walks out of the room and down the stairs towards the kitchen. "Of course I do, Hermione. We have no secrets anymore, remember?"_

 _When he is gone, the smile melts from her face. She closes her eyes._

 _But she does still have secrets. She does not tell him that the darkness has already taken hold._

* * *

oooo

Tom was successful in his plan not to think about the Granger girl – for all of four days. She hadn't attended classes on Thursday afternoon or Friday, and he hadn't seen her at all on the weekend so she had effectively slipped his mind; but like an unsightly wart she popped up again in his life and in his mind the next Monday, and he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since. Bloody woman.

It was now Wednesday, and she was walking down to the edge of the lake, apparently for their shared Care of Magical Creatures class. She walked confidently but gracefully, her hair flouncing as she took the stairs at a surprisingly fast speed for someone who assumedly hadn't taken them before; she was very agile. He immediately looked elsewhere and pushed her from his mind.

Silvanus Kettleburn was still the Care of Magical Creatures professor. He was always far too energetic for Tom's taste; he had great enthusiasm for his subject and the students who took it. Handsome and unaware of the fact, he was completely oblivious to how many of the girls in the class fluttered their eyelashes at him and tittered at his inane jokes, despite being nearly 20 years younger than him. Though Tom was not prone to public displays of emotion, he felt the constant urge to roll his eyes at the spectacle.

He only took this class because he wanted to be the first person since Albus Dumbledore to take eleven N.E.W.T.s. He could have taken twelve, but Divination was something that he had taken for six years – he felt no reason to waste his time on a seventh.

They were studying Red Caps again. They were interesting little creatures, but Tom had already read up on them and didn't feel the need to know more. He was sitting on the grass (Kettleburn liked to hold his classes outside) with his book open, pretending to follow along as his mind wandered to more important things, when he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.

Fawkes the phoenix, once again a colorful, irritating distraction, had landed on a low branch of a tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He was too far away from Tom for him to see what the bird was doing, but he was facing the group of students spread out on the grass.

Tom, who was sitting behind and to the right of Hermione Granger, saw her head imperceptibly turn towards the bird. He saw the smallest of smiles play across her face, and that's when he just _knew_ that there was something more to her. And it had something to do with that phoenix. His suspicions were confirmed when Fawkes took off into the Forbidden Forest after class finished; Tom took his time packing all of his things away, subtly watching her speak briefly to the professor about something – she laughed at something he said, and Tom's eyes narrowed.

Walking up to the stones that lined the stairs up to the castle, he moved purposefully slowly; then he watched as Kettleburn turned away to gather his materials and Hermione moved silently and swiftly, as graceful as a cat, into the trees of the Forbidden Forest. She was swallowed up by the darkness.

He physically labored to dispel the urge to go after her. He watched the trees with eyes like a hawk. He turned around – Mulciber and Lestrange, who were in all of his elective and advanced classes, looked from him to the trees where the slip of a girl had disappeared.

His eyes narrowed. "Follow her," he said lowly. "Don't get caught. And then report back to me before dinner."

The two boys were off like a shot, wands in hand. He watched them enter the Forbidden Forest, waited around for a few seconds, and then continued his ascent up the stairs. He had some research to do about phoenixes.

* * *

oooo

After spending a few minutes practicing with the pink ivory wand – and getting used to the effect Fawkes had on her magic – Hermione saw the physical manifestation of Fawkes look up from where he'd been dozing. He jumped from his branch and soared through the trees, gone from her sight. The Fawkes inside her had gone very still, withdrawing his presence from her fingertips back into her ribcage.

Cocking her head, she listened. A single twig snapped. Whoever, or whatever, was stalking her was very good; but Hermione, with years of being both the hunted and the hunter, was better. Quickly and as quietly as possible, she scrambled up into a heap of massive roots, hiding her body within them and peering over the edge. She tried not to think about what else might be hiding in those roots – but if it were anything bad, Fawkes would have warned her.

The two boys that came into the clearing with their wands drawn were Tom Riddle's cronies: Ambrose Mulciber and Edmond Lestrange. She knew this because she had made sure to get all of their names and faces into her head and put them all in a mental file labeled WARNING: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS.

She watched them carefully as they looked about before beginning to pass through the clearing. Then, with Fawkes' hum of approval, she revealed herself, standing up on top of the giant root she'd been hiding behind. They didn't see her at first, as they were both looking in the other direction. She couldn't help the patronizing smile that graced her lips.

She cleared her throat and they both whirled around, pointing their wands at her. She sighed, crossing her arms, tapping the tip of her own wand against her hip. They stared at her, unsure of what to do.

"I do hope that your _Lord_ won't be too disappointed in you," she drawled, standing a still as a statue. She felt the dark, bitter side of her personality – the part of her that came out to play when encountered with Death Eaters – rise up within her. She did not try to stop it; by now, it was as natural as breathing. "I know that his punishment can be rather…harsh." She ran her lips over her teeth.

When she looked into Edmond Lestrange's face, all she could see was his nephews' eyes staring down at her as she writhed under their torture. She knew Edmond was neither of his nephews – in fact, Hermione didn't really know anything about Edmond Lestrange. His eyes were dark, his skin sallow and pale, his body nothing like his companion's; he was small and thin, and, she imagined, very quick. His eyes were clever. But, wisely, she saw them flash in fear. Definitely not stupid, then. She smiled at him. He did not smile back, but licked his lips nervously.

Quick as lightning, she slashed out with her wand and disarmed and stunned him in four seconds, amazed but not surprised at how well her rightful wand responded to her offensive magic. Mulciber was quick enough to deflect her stunning spell as she turned on him – she smiled, pleased that she at least had something of a challenge – but his friend's form crumpled to the ground, out cold. Hermione didn't spare him a glance, her predatory gaze fixed on her remaining opponent.

He was sneering at her. Of average height and average build, with a fit physique and tan skin, Ambrose Mulciber, who looked so like his son, stared at her with flat green eyes.

She paced in front of him. She could almost _smell_ the blood. She clenched her wand tighter, reminding herself that she could no longer kill at will here. The heavy beating of her heart pounded blood and oxygen through her body. The thrill of battle…well, she would always be a warrior. And now that she was in a peaceful place, she was _craving_ it. Craving _this._

Once again, she smiled at him. "I like your hero hair," she said teasingly, referring to the swoop of light brown hair that was pushed back from his forehead. "Did Tom teach you how to style it like that? It looks nice."

He shot a spell at her. She deflected it easily, but whistled. "Nonverbal magic, in someone so young and inexperienced," she purred tauntingly, looking at him from under her eyelashes. "I'm very impressed."

"I'll show you young and inexperienced," he snarled, flinging another curse at her, and then another.

She smirked, dodging one and repelling another. "I'm positively quivering with fear," she snarked. Then, without warning, she flung three spells in quick succession his way, and his shields fell before her, effectively battered with the force of her magic. With a quick, wordless _Expelliarmus_ , his wand was in her hand alongside Edmond's.

She had never seen such a comically shocked expression on anyone's face before; it was priceless. She laughed at his expense. He looked ready to charge her, and with a flick she rendered his arms and legs immobile, as if stuck in stone. She merely stood watching him, giving him time to try to get free. It took thirty seconds before he realized that he was going absolutely nowhere, and that she was standing, like a stone, before him. She regarded him coolly.

"Ambrose Mulciber," she said, stroking a line down his face with the tip of her wand. His earlier bravado was long gone – he was sweating. Slytherins were only as brave as their magic was powerful. As soon as they were defeated, the smart ones switched tactics. And from what she could see, Ambrose was very smart. He was pale, his eyes calculating his odds, but he didn't say a word.

"I knew your son, you know," she said, once again pacing in front of him. "Quite well, actually. He was handsome, like you. He wasn't as smart as you supposedly are, though." She gave him a chilling smile, and put her mouth to his ear. "I killed him," she whispered. She pulled back to look him in the eye; he looked equal parts terrified, confused and angry. "Killed by a worthless, filthy Mudblood," she intoned. "Over some stupid mistake." She snapped back to herself, having briefly lost herself in the memory of Mulciber Junior's capture and subsequent death. There may have been a little torture thrown in there, as well. He had died with her name on his lips.

This Mulciber remained unyielding, but sweat pored down his temples and he looked like he was about to throw up.

"There are certain things that I would like to know about you and your _Lord Voldemort,"_ she hissed, her eyes narrowing. A pair of familiar crimson eyes flashed across her mind's eye. "I already know quite a bit, you see, but it never hurts to get the full scoop. Any information is good information, right?" He looked at her blankly, but he could not keep the contempt from his eyes. There was fear there, too, though; plenty of fear. "Should I torture it out of you?" she asked sweetly, cocking her head. "Or I could place you under the _Imperius_ curse, and get you to walk right up to your Lord in the Great Hall and stab him in his miserable, disgusting, scaly face."

Mulciber looked horrified at the prospect. She laughed. "Alas, that's not really how I like to go about things," she said, waving her hand. "Plus, his face _these_ days is far too handsome to carve up; such a waste. When he dies, it will be by my hand. But it can't be too wild – I wouldn't want to mess up the timeline too badly. I could end up knocking myself out of existence," she said casually, buffing her nails on her shirt.

"Merlin, witch, just do something already!" Mulciber suddenly shouted, looking utterly mad. "You're, what, a time traveler or something? What are you waiting for? Do whatever it is you came to do!" He panted. "There isn't anything you haven't done that Tom Riddle hasn't already done himself."

She chuckled. "Oh Ambrose, but when you torture someone with an Unforgiveable, you have to really _mean_ it," she said lightly. "For all of his huffing and puffing and cold, evil soul, Tom Riddle doesn't have a _reason_ to make it hurt. He doesn't hate you, so his compulsion isn't strong enough. You have to really feel the anger, _feel_ the hate." She felt her heart turn to stone. "Like so. _Crucio._ "

Darkness surged up within her as she gave Ambrose Mulciber, Sr., a taste of what his son and his friends had inflicted upon her for so long. She thought of Bellatrix's sneering visage, the rotted teeth and rancid breath puffing over Hermione's face as she wept and wept and wept, screamed and screamed and screamed. She thought of Ron.

It was interesting – Fawkes' essence, while she could still feel it burning low in her stomach, did not interfere with her torture. He seemed content to sleep deep within her soul as her inevitable darkness came out to play. Unfortunately, after having killed so many and after having used the Haitian _Probilium_ curse four times now, she had irreversibly tainted her soul. She could not bring herself to fully regret it.

She counted to sixty (it was a very slow sixty) and then released the young man from the clutches of her curse. He sagged in relief. "Now," she said clinically, "was that better or worse than Riddle's torture? Come now, be honest. I promise not to hurt you if you tell the truth."

"Worse," he panted, his eyes squeezing shut. His cheeks were covered in tears. Taking the sleeve of her robe, she gently wiped his face.

"See? Now, when Riddle tortures you to teach you a lesson, you can always think about how it could be worse," she said matter-of-factly. She continued to wipe the tears and snot from his face. He was in too much pain to be humiliated by it.

"Thank you," he said, his voice quivering.

She laughed, delighted. "You're very welcome!" she said, twirling around. She rubbed his cheek with her thumb. "So polite!"

His cold, flat eyes, the color of green olives, were not so flat anymore. He looked at her, terrified. She wondered, as cold amusement surged through her, if she had gone a little bit mad.

"Since you've been such a lovely, willing participant today, Ambrose, I won't torture you anymore or do anything terrible," she promised. "I just need to grab a little something from your head, first," she finished, coming up to him and holding his head between her hands. She looked into his eyes. "Sorry about this. _Legilimens."_

It took her five minutes or so to get past his walls, which weren't bad for a seventeen-year-old boy; but they were no match for her mind, and weak from the strain of being held under the _Cruciatus_ curse. She flicked through his mind quickly, knowing she only had minutes before Riddle got suspicious and came looking for them. Most of it was stuff she already knew from her own experience with Voldemort and his horcruxes and looking through Harry's memories. But it allowed her to get a better sense of the _boy,_ not the monster. He was well on his way to becoming that monster, especially since he already had two horcruxes, but he hadn't fully transitioned yet. And while his power surpassed hers, even with the addition of Fawkes'…whatever it was…that she now had, he still had a lot more to learn.

And this would show her exactly what he hadn't learned. Or some of it, anyway. Hermione didn't doubt that Riddle wasn't exactly totally forthcoming to his little minions. She was sure that there was a lot that they didn't know.

When she was finished with Mulciber, leaving him trapped in her invisible cocoon, she went over to Lestrange's prone form; apparently Tom Riddle had not cracked the code to Occlumency while unconscious. That was rather important, if you asked her; although it was generally unsafe to enter the mind of the unconscious. Most people tended to get lost. Hermione Granger was not most people. She slid into his mind with ease, completely focused.

When she was finished, she stood and walked back over to Mulciber, patting him on the cheek. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity," she said, staring into his eyes that were now full of fury, humiliation and still fear. "But I can't have you going around spilling all my secrets, can I?" She wrinkled her nose. "No, that won't do. So, once again, I'm so sorry about this, really, I am…"

Pressing her bright wand to his temple, she smiled.

" _Obliviate."_

* * *

oooo

Before dinner, Tom hung out in his old common room; now that he was Head Boy he had a suite of his own, just down the hall from the kitchens and Hufflepuff dorms. He waited and waited, and waited and waited for Ambrose and Lestrange to get back. He waited for just over an hour. The dinner hour was fast approaching. Irritated, he stood; his remaining minions, Antonin Dolohov and Conan Avery, both sixth years, and Thoros Nott and Gavin Rosier, both seventh years like him, stood with him. He waved them off, just as Mulciber and Lestrange came through the door.

They were both a little rumpled, and each carried a basket of blue flowers – perilialis, if he was correct, as beautiful as they were hard to find. They set the baskets on the floor in front of him, bowed their heads respectably, and waited.

"What are these?" he said slowly, as patiently as he could manage.

They both looked up at him, confused. "Is this not the right kind of flower, My Lord?" Mulciber said, looking nervous. Tom peered at him curiously; he was shaking, and a thin streak of dried drool marred his face at the corner of his mouth. "I thought you said perilialis, for your potion."

"What potion?" Tom said, his fury slowly mounting.

"Um, well, the uh…" Lestrange stumbled over his words, looking terrified. "The one that helps with the after effects of torture, My Lord," he said quickly. "Although I'm not sure why you need it – I hope you don't think that we want it, My Lord, because we are all _proud_ to –"

"Hush." Edmond stopped speaking immediately. Tom looked deep into his favorite minions' eyes, brown and green, and snarled. There was nothing there – no recognition of the task he had given them, no joking or anything like that (as if they would dare), just blind, flat obedience.

He lurched forward and grabbed Mulciber by the ears. _"Legilimens!"_ he snarled, and he soared into his subordinate's mind like slicing through butter.

It was all a jumbled mess at first, but then he was able to get his bearings and navigate: he watched on in horror as his two minions traipsed through the Forbidden Forest, talking incessantly as they looked for the magical blue flowers that were notorious for being elusive. When he got back to the memory of the three of them together on the path, he watched as his memory self ordered them to go find as many of those flowers as they could, that he needed them for a potion. Then he got to a memory that was farther out, contained in a dark box: it was just full of pain.

He jerked himself out of Mulciber's mind; whom, he noticed, looked like he was about to fall over. Lestrange made sure to put an arm around him, holding him up as Mulciber's knees buckled.

"I'm sorry, My Lord," Mulciber said, his eyes twitching and his body shaking with severe tremors. "I hope we didn't…didn't disappoint you…"

He passed out.

Tom recognized that after effects of the _Cruciatus_ curse well enough – he'd used it enough times on his own followers and enemies that he was familiar with it. However, Mulciber was his most stoic follower, good about receiving pain and being gracious about it. Ambrose and Edmond, as well as Thoros, were his favorites because a) they were smarter than most of the people in this school, and b) they followed him because they wanted to, not because they were afraid of him or just thought that his little group was a cool "club" to be in that would elevate them to the top. They were the only ones privy to all of his plans – excluding the horcruxes, of course. That would be his little secret.

But the fact that Mulciber was a walking and talking zombie with drool – drool! – on his face was not comforting. His mind immediately flashed to the girl. Had she done this? Had she dueled them, tortured them and then _Obliviated_ them, only to send them back here to taunt him with the idea of a potion meant to soothe the nerves after the _Cruciatus_ curse?

Surely not. He rifled through his head for any other enemies that might want to cause him harm. There were a number of people at school that were wary of him and outright didn't like him, but they were few and far between, and there were none that were capable of this kind of stunt. And Dumbledore would never go so far as to willingly harm a student. It had to have been Granger; but the vision of her sweet features, all high cheekbones and bowed lips and heart-shaped face, contorted into the snarl of the _Cruciatus…_

But then again, those eyes…those eyes. They were full of secrets. Of private laughter and scorn. They were cold sometimes, blazing hot the next, flashing with a series of colors that had him transfixed like a common _boy._ Those eyes hid something great, something terrible; he just hadn't put his finger on it yet. And yet he was still reluctant to believe that two of his best followers had been so dismantled by a _girl._ As he'd watched her in classes, there had been nothing to indicate that she was capable enough of beating two of his Knights; she was a decent student, to be sure, but her casting was often less than impressive.

He looked at Lestrange, who looked simultaneously confused and terrified. "I'll speak with you later tonight," he said darkly. "For now, get Ambrose to bed and give him some of these flowers to chew on," he said, shoving one of the baskets into Edmond's jittery hands. "It'll help with his nerves. After that, you can come down to dinner." He looked around at his followers, who were all looking between Mulciber and him in confusion. "I'm going to supper, and then to the library – you're welcome to join me in the Great Hall, but from there I go on alone. Edmond alone will stay up until I get back."

Edmond gulped, looking sweaty and pale, but he didn't give a word of protest. Without another word, Tom strode out of the common room, his followers no doubt hot on his heels.

When he got up to the Great Hall, his eyes immediately sought her out. Part of him hated himself for it; part of him wanted answers. He found her immediately, over by the Ravenclaw table talking to Bertha Higgs about something or other. She did not look up as he entered, nor as he walked slowly to his table. Only when he sat down and reached for his napkin did he feel her eyes on him.

Her gaze washed over him like something cold and slick. He held her eyes and made sure she could see the anger in his expression; she didn't miss it. Most people looked away, pale, when faced with the intensity of his stare. Most people.

A cat-like smile curved on her fine lips. Her eyes shifted, and he would swear they swirled with crimson before returning to their usual enigmatic brown. Something heavy and acidic and terrible manifested in the pit of his gut; something that filled his chest with icy tendrils of dread. Her smile was positively vicious, sultry and enticing in its darkness. Like a cat teasing the mouse that was already caught under its paw.

She looked at him one more time, flashed him a wink that was so subtle that he wasn't sure it had actually happened, and then walked away towards her own table, wiggling her fingers at Higgs, who waved back. She did not spare him another glance all throughout dinner.

* * *

oooo

Hermione didn't have an evening class, so she walked up to the first floor, intending on visiting Draco in the hospital wing. She cast another featherweight charm on her bag, as her first one was beginning to wear off; now that she'd begun to practice with her African wand, she was becoming even _more_ frustrated with her walnut one. She still wasn't ready, though. She didn't know if she ever would be; that wand was terrifying in its intensity. Plus, now that Riddle suspected her of that little business in the forest – foolish, on her part, but she hadn't really thought it through, she'd just been so _angry_ – she didn't need to give him another excuse to study her. Shiny pink wands would do that.

She simply smiled and nodded at Madam Soranus at the front desk and then continued on to Draco's bed, closer to the back windows. She pulled the curtain around his bed part way closed before she sat down in the chair next to him.

She took his cold, pale hand in her own before she spoke, her voice quiet. "I did something stupid today," she said, bringing his hand up to her cheek and closing her eyes. "I started practicing with the African wand. Fawkes insisted, you know? And then I got so caught up in it that I accidentally…well, _overreacted_ with a couple of our new Death Eater friends." She snorted in irritation and amusement. "Bloody bird." She ignored the sudden press of heat against her heart. "The wand is fantastic, Draco. It's just so _powerful._ It has perfect aim, perfect balance, and it does whatever I need it to _just_ how I like it. And it's as sensitive to wandless magic as anyone could ever hope for." She paused, swallowing, and brought his hand down to her lap. "But I can feel the power racing through my veins when I use it. Don't get me wrong, having power to keep me safe from Tom Riddle while I'm here, especially with Fawkes' help, is better than being significantly weaker than him, and with how Bellatrix's wand is responding to me, I am extremely vulnerable. I know that. But I don't want that power to get to my head, Draco." She took a heavy breath. "I've seen how power corrupts. I've _felt_ it. I promised Harry that I wouldn't lose myself to the darkness."

She tried and failed to ignore the little voice in her head that told her that Harry wasn't here, and that, with Draco as he was, she was essentially on her own. Even after Draco woke up, how long would it be before he succumbed to Bellatrix's curse? No, she was alone. And she would have to do what she must to survive.

She squeezed Draco's hand. "You'd think Fawkes would be disapproving of my use of Dark magic today," she continued conversationally. Fawkes' essence purred within her chest. "But he just waited, watched, did nothing to stop me or to support me. He seemed not to care how I went about things…just that I got what I wanted. Strange, right? I thought phoenixes were creatures of great morality and Light magic. I figured the _Cruciatus_ curse wouldn't sit well with him, but it felt just as right, and just as natural, as it always has. Or at least, as it has for the last couple of years."

Her eyes filled with hot tears as she thought of the darkness that had taken a foothold in her soul after Ron's death and her time in the clutches of Voldemort's most loyal followers. They had scarred her, ruined the pureness of her intentions and the morality that had once made her _better_ than them. It was what had set her apart. They had not taken everything from her – she would never be just like them, at least – but they had dirtied her innocence with their filth, and she would never be the same. Vengeance had taken the spot in her heart where justice had once lived.

She let the tears fall. "I wish you were here, Draco," she said, not bothering to swipe at the salty tracks on her cheeks. She clutched his hand tighter in her lap. Pain and fear gripped her heart…but above all, she felt anger. She could have had a normal life. She could have lived in peace, finished her education at Hogwarts, gone on to get a Ministry job where she might have made a difference. She could have never had to spill a single drop of blood.

And _Voldemort_ had wrecked that, trampled through her life like the foul, evil thing he was. He was the reason that Ron was dead. He was the reason that Draco sat here on a hospital bed, just waiting to die. He was the reason that darkness had seeped into her soul, damaging it forever.

She took great shuddering breaths, trying to calm herself. Staring at the smooth, peaceful plains of Draco's bruised face, still faultlessly handsome, she gritted her teeth. She leaned close to him, hovering her face next to his ear as Fawkes' power mixed with the anger and darkness at the heart of her magic. She felt the heat of it surge into her skin and her eyes, travel down to the very tips of her toenails. Her breath felt hot against her lips.

"I'm going to make him regret the day he ever thought to fuck up our lives," she breathed against her friend's ear. "I'm going to make him rue the day that he ever laid eyes on me. And I'm going to do it with a smile on my face. I promise," she said, pressing her hot lips to his forehead. "I swear it. No matter what it takes."

Harry's voice reverberated throughout her skull. _Just don't lose yourself to the darkness, all right? I need you to be strong, 'Mione._

She rolled her eyes up to the sky, her face still wet with tears. "I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Then she stood, squeezed Draco's hand one last time, and then left in a flurry of dark robes that Snape would have very much approved of.

She smiled, thinking of her old professor. "Don't worry, Severus," she muttered on her way out. "I'll avenge you, too."

She burst through the hospital doors, glowering into the darkness. Fawkes' spirit, bathed in the mingled light and darkness of her soul, hummed contentedly within her chest.

oooo

* * *

 **So there it is. Hermione's dark side has officially come out to play. And Fawkes' odd tolerance of Dark magic will be explained later on in the story. But like I said at the beginning of the chapter, Hermione isn't suddenly some completely crazy hell-angel. She's had a moment of anger and weakness, and she's beginning to understand that she's kind of on her own, and she just has to power through and do things as best she can. And that means maybe having to get her hands dirty a bit and not play by the rules. And yeah, she's mad. Doesn't have a whole lot of reasons to be happy, our Hermione.**

 **Anyways, keep hanging in there. Don't give up on me. Next chapter is my favorite so far. I like writing Hermione and Tom together. Dialogue between them is fun.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, so it says that Cygnus Black III, the father of Bellatrix, Andromeda and Narcissa, was born in 1938. But then Bellatrix was supposedly born in 1951. So Cygnus had his first-born child at age…** _ **13?**_ **Um, I don't think so. Gross. So for the purposes of this story, I'm going to change Cygnus' birth date by about eight years, and therefore he (and his older brother Alphard and his cousin Orion) will be at Hogwarts at the same time as Riddle, albeit in a younger year. He's really not that important to the story, just a secondary character with rather static development, but I just wanted to point that out. That seems like a weird mistake for HP Wikia to make. (I mean having a child at age 13 is just…** _ **ew.**_ **Ew.)**

 **Anyways, let's do this. I think this is one of my favorite chapters yet.**

* * *

oooo

Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. –Sir Walter Scott

Character, like a photograph, develops in darkness. -Yousuf Karsh

For believe me: the secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is—to live dangerously. –Friedrich Nietzsche

Hello darkness, my old friend  
I've come to talk with you again  
Because a vision softly creeping  
Left its seeds while I was sleeping  
And the vision that was planted in my brain  
Still remains within the sound of silence  
\- "Sound of Silence" by Disturbed

* * *

oooo

 _Thursday, October 26, 2000_

 _Kazakhstan_

 _Hermione is in pain._

 _One would think that she should be desensitized to it now, after all that she has been through, and she is, to an extent; but Hermione has discovered, over time, that each wound is different, that every ache and scrape and burn and cut is entirely different and born of a unique situation all its own. So, while she has learned to bear it, compartmentalizing her pain and other emotions that hinder productivity, it always still hurts just as bad as the last one._

 _She hisses through her teeth, face down on a hotel bed, as her companion presses a hot compress soaked in healing herbs and medicines against the extensive wounds on her mid and lower back. He pauses, his hands stilling._

" _We are never, EVER doing that again, Granger. Do you understand?" Draco says through gritted teeth. "A bloody_ _ **manticore,**_ _Hermione. We were nearly killed by one of the most vicious creatures of all time, all for the sake of seeing some old geezer to learn some vague something-or-other." He mutters something that's probably some derogatory comment about her, but she can't quite make it out._

 _She wants to say that they'd learned more than just "some vague something-or-other," but she remains silent, humoring him. He'd gotten by with just a shallow scrape on the back of his thigh; she hadn't been so lucky. Four deep slashes cross the expanse of her back from one of the aforementioned manticore's large, wickedly clawed front paws. She shifts her naked torso into a more comfortable position as her fine blond friend continues to work on cleaning her wounds, muttering healing spells all the while in an angry, bitter tone._

" _At least neither of you were stung," says a voice to her right. Charlie, one of the four remaining Weasleys, sits in a rickety wooden chair with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand. He regards her with icy blue eyes; they are not the same cornflower blue as Ron's, but combined with bright red hair, they are achingly familiar all the same. "Was it worth it?" he inquires, his gaze curious. "Did you find him?"_

 _Hermione smiles slowly, her excitement overwhelming her pain. She reaches out her right hand, her wand hand, and shows him. There, tattooed into her skin in shimmering gold ink, sits her newest achievement. It is a complex pattern that wraps around her middle finger, running over her knuckles and the pads of her digit. The ink is only one shade lighter than her slightly browned skin, unnoticeable unless one was to get a close look at it. Draco has one, too, on his left hand._

" _Incredible," Charlie breathes, eyes fixed on the shiny geometric pattern._

 _Draco grimaces. "Painful," he says, continuing to work on Hermione's wounds. "But yes, definitely worth it – though we have yet to test them, because Hermione always has to investigate unknown shapes lurking in the dark, because apparently she's never taken the message of horror stories to heart: don't follow the strange noise into the dark cave. When has that ever ended well, Granger?" he says with exasperation. "And, lucky for us, manticores are hardly affected by spell magic, like many other magical creatures, and so we were reduced to running like fucking maniacs through the desert – hoping that we didn't come across something even worse – until we had a moment to pause and activate the portkey, whilst covered in blood and dust and sweat."_

" _And that's how you ended up here, back in the hotel room," Charlie finishes, nodding his head. "Well, like I said: just be grateful the little fucker didn't get a chance to jab at you with that stinger…otherwise you would be toast."_

" _Well," Draco says after a moment of silence, "at least we talked her out of Rwanda."_

 _Charlie chuckled in response. "At least there's that. Studying Nundus…I mean_ _ **honestly,**_ _Hermione; that's practically searching for the worst way to die."_

" _Bloody ridiculous," Draco mutters under his breath, cleaning her wounds more harshly. She winces, but does not complain._

 _This is not the first mess she has pulled him into, nor will it be the last._

 _But she still plans on visiting Africa; wisely, she does not mention it._

* * *

oooo

She ignored Riddle through double Advanced Potions on Thursday morning, where she continued to solidify her acquaintanceship with Slytherin seventh year Raven Flynn, whose dark sense of humor was built on a foundation of sarcasm and sophisticated intelligence. Petite and rather beautiful, with nearly black hair similar to Hermione's in style and sharp dark eyes, she had a lightning fast, mischievous grin and a smirk worthy of any Malfoy. She was rather good in Potions, too. Slughorn, who watched them with greedy eyes all throughout the class, fawned over their perfect Oculus Potion, and, predictably, extended an invitation to Hermione to join his "Slug Club."

She ignored Riddle all throughout mealtimes that day, determined to avoid meeting the enigmatic pair of eyes that seemed to follow her every move. The feeling of his dark gaze on her made the hairs on her arms stand up, but she still ignored it, chatting amiably with her new Gryffindor friends whilst simultaneously answering their questions with as little detail as she could manage.

" _How did you come to arrive in Hogwarts?"_

" _A portkey of some sort, I think – it's all kind of blurry, to be honest. It was an accident."_ Lie.

" _Where did you get the scar on your neck?"_

" _From a knife."_ Technically not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

" _Is it true that you came from a war in China?"_

" _Yes."_ Lie.

" _Is Mallery going to be all right?"_

" _Of course."_ Lie.

Lie, lie, lie.

She had been nervous about their shared Defense Against the Darks Arts class Thursday afternoon though; it was an advanced class, and would probably focus on practical use rather than theory, which she'd had Wednesday before lunch with the Ravenclaws.

Which meant, a lot of the time, dueling.

Hermione had spent a good portion of each night in a secret little room up near the statue of the Bloody Baron in the North Wing that she had discovered once upon a time, sitting with the real-time Fawkes, who watched on impassively, as she practiced more and more spells with her new wand. She'd used the Room of Requirement for some of the nastier ones that required targets to hit. The only issue she had with the wand was that it was almost _too_ sensitive. It seemed an odd thing to complain about, considering how many people wished that their wands were more responsive. But the smooth bit of reddish-pink wood seemed to know what she wanted before she wanted it, and, unfortunately, that meant that it sometimes acted before she technically gave it permission to. Which could be very dangerous – she often wanted to express her feelings via magic, and yet she could hardly do half of the things she wished simply because she _wanted_ to. If allowed to continue like this, the wand might accidentally kill someone acting on what it picked up in her emotions.

She'd spent hours training the wand not to submit to her will, as one might think, but to submit to her _restraint._

It had worked very well for her so far, performing flawlessly in her practices and again in the Forbidden Forest with Riddle's two idiots. It was subtle enough to have channeled her use of Legilimency and cast a perfect _Obliviate,_ but quick enough to not hesitate when she'd initially gone on the offensive with them. All in all, it was the perfect wand, and she was very quickly becoming attached to it. But using the wand in a duel in an environment such as a classroom, in the presence of a lot of underage, inexperienced students, was different. The power with which the wand channeled her magic might affect the space that they were in; therefore she would continue to use her old wand, trying to ignore the feeling of disappointment that came with the decision.

Plus, Hermione, while usually in impeccable control of her body, her magic and her actions, still had a whole host of instincts that could be triggered at the most inopportune time, which could be a disaster with a wand as sensitive as the African one. Also, she was trying to keep her magical aura contained – it wouldn't do to have someone especially attuned to things like that (like Luna Lovegood had been) to pick up on Fawkes' power…or, she reluctantly admitted, the darkish cloud that her own magic had become. The wand's raw energy made it hard to control the magical atmosphere around her.

Even using Bellatrix's old wand, Hermione was going to do everything in her power to avoid getting paired with Tom in class; while she would undoubtedly lose using the walnut wand, as it no longer channeled her magic effectively (she was still irritated by this – she'd worked her arse off to get that wand to bend to her will!), she still didn't want to accidentally get carried away while dueling him. Dueling with Lord Voldemort, however young he may have been, was still not a good idea in the confines of a classroom around a bunch of innocents.

Once upon a time she would have been one such innocent. It was interesting how the ravages of time and war could change a person's life.

The only other Gryffindors that were in Advanced DADA were Lyall, Sabrina, Kat, and a young man named Magnus Macdonald: a handsome, well-built brunette that was the keeper and the captain of the Gryffindor quidditch team. Hermione had noticed him looking at her several times throughout meals and in class, and had caught his eyes a couple of times. She maintained a very purposefully neutral look, not unkind but not encouraging; she wanted to avoid any sort of romantic entanglements here. Even if she did develop feelings for someone else (if she was being honest, she would admit to having been secretly interested in Draco for a while, but had deemed that potential road a poor choice; too many complications, and too much history), she was still so devastated by Ron's memory that she didn't think she could ever truly move on. Her hand came up to absentmindedly touch the outlines of the ring and locket that hung on a chain around her neck. Sighing, she managed to escape to the bathroom before she was roped into walking to class with her fellow Gryffindors. She just needed a minute to herself to clear her head.

Ducking inside, she instead thought of what she'd learned about Raven Flynn and other classmates that she'd encountered in the last few days.

Flynn was a welcome surprise, given that she'd come from Slytherin; she reminded Hermione somewhat of the older Pansy that she'd grown to know and love. She was clever and funny, and didn't make Hermione feel like a specimen under a microscope (as some of the other students did on occasion). They'd worked together really easily that morning and the previous Thursday, Hermione not having to take on all of the responsibility as she had gotten used to doing in her school days. Flynn had kept up with her.

She had told Hermione that she was originally from Pureblood society in America (she said it with such scorn, though, that Hermione had nearly danced with glee) and had moved to London when she was twelve, transferring to Hogwarts as a second year; hence the unusual accent with which she spoke. Other than that, she learned that Raven was especially fond of Potions and had an affinity for nonverbal magic that had snared Hermione's attention in a second flat. She seemed very comfortable with how she used her ebony and dragon heartstring wand, and waved it with expertise that most students were just beginning to develop at this age. She held a general disdain for her fellow students and was not particularly close to anyone, although apparently Violet Greengrass (who Hermione had yet to meet) was "tolerable on a good day" and Tom Riddle was "amusing and easy on the eyes" when he wasn't being "absolutely frigid." Hermione liked the fact that Flynn was astute enough to recognize the coldness of her Head Boy and that she wasn't overwhelmed by his "charm and oh-so-handsome face" as Hermione had overheard one Hufflepuff girl say in the corridor yesterday morning. She generally found Gryffindors insufferable, which Hermione had laughed out loud at upon learning, but Hermione was "all right" and "surprisingly Slytherin" for being "an obnoxious, terminally condescending lion."

In short, Hermione was delighted that she had found Raven Flynn. She would be both a source of pleasurable company and a tool that Hermione could use.

She noticed that Gavin Rosier, one of Riddle's less intelligent cronies – and that was putting it nicely – leered at her (and every other female with a decent pair of legs) constantly, and that Thoros Nott gave her appraising, appreciative looks when he thought she wasn't looking. She had subtly manipulated each of them with barely perceptible physical cues designed to send signals to the most primal part of the brain.

With Rosier she had delicately sent cues of disinterest – disdain, even – turning her body away from him and rolling her eyes over his form dispassionately as if there was nothing there that interested her. He was not unattractive, with bright golden hair, a square jaw and cerulean eyes, but he was big and brutish and stupid, and reminded her far too much of his son.

With Nott, who was nearly a carbon copy of his son, her classmate Theodore, with the same tall, rangy build, forest green eyes and dark hair – and just as attractive and intelligent too, it seemed – she did the exact opposite. She did not openly flirt with him, for she didn't want to let Riddle in on the fact that she was trying to manipulate his loyal followers; but she crossed and uncrossed her legs when she knew he was watching, ran her fingers through her hair as though daydreaming, and would sometimes catch his eye only to look away again. She would also hum a little tune – her mother used to sing "Close to You" by the Carpenters while cooking when Hermione was growing up, and so it was Hermione's natural choice of a song – sometimes while walking by him in the hallway or sitting near him in class, which had happened a handful of times now. He seemed to be favored by Riddle, the same as Edmond and Mulciber. She had plans for him. But for now, pitting the two cronies against each other for a girl was a good start. She had made sure to start putting extra attention into her appearance, which was something she had rarely done before, and she had used whatever knowledge she had picked up from Pansy and Ginny over the years to channel her feminine wiles, which she had also rarely done before. She knew Tom Riddle would never be brought down by a girl; but that didn't mean his followers couldn't be. And she had already gained all of their attention in one way or another.

Mulciber started sweating whenever she got close to him or met his eyes – probably due to muscle memory and the little dark box of pain she had let him keep in his mind that he would forever unwittingly associate with her. A clever kind of torture, she thought, on her part.

Edmond looked at her with shifty eyes, but she'd determined during her little foray into his mind that, despite his loyalty to his Lord, he would be the one of the first ones to turn – simply because he was smarter, cleverer, than the rest; and his sense of self-preservation was far stronger than any loyalty he could feel for any other, although she had felt how he respected and feared Riddle. He would realize, at some point, that perhaps he'd misplaced his loyalty. She would feed that flame of doubt that she knew would eventually, with a lot of her carefully controlled influence, spark to life in his head.

Conan Avery was one of Riddle's sixth year followers. He eluded her attention most of the time, and was so slippery that she couldn't get a good sense of him; it had only been a few days, however, and, because he was a sixth year, she had no classes in which to observe him. All she knew was that he was slender, pale, and dark haired, with blue eyes that were good at hiding his emotions. She noticed at mealtimes and during free periods that he was not always at Tom's side; but when he was, he hung back, observing. She thought, perhaps, that he might be worth cultivating.

The only things she had determined about Dolohov were a) his black eyes were just as cold as Riddle's, b) she really wanted nothing to do with him, and c) the purple scar on her abdomen from the Department of Ministries ached when he was near, just as it had in her time. He positively radiated evil. She guessed that he probably admired Riddle, and followed him faithfully, but was in it for the ride to the top, and for the potential future that Tom was offering: a world in which Purebloods ruled. He followed Tom because Tom was stronger than he was; although Hermione had heard rumors that Dolohov was the only student that had lasted more than a few minutes dueling Riddle. The cold shrewdness in his eyes when he looked at Tom hinted not at blind adoration, but at a sort of calculating obedience; _How much can I get away with? What moves do I make to elevate myself to the top of Riddle's circle and eventually the Ministry? Would I be able to dispose of him and replace him?_

Hermione wondered if Tom had picked up on Dolohov's possible intentions. Voldemort was perceptive and excellent at Legilimency, but as she remembered Dolohov had been one of the best at Occlumency in her time, rivaling Snape with his proficiency. She wondered if he was as good at it, yet, that he could keep the current Tom Riddle from reaching his innermost thoughts. It was a possibility. Or perhaps Tom knew of Dolohov's thoughts but didn't really care; besides Harry he had never taken any sort of threat seriously, after all, and Dolohov had a lot of skills to offer as a Knight of Walpurgis. If Hermione could find out more, she could use it. Information was important in this game she was playing, and she would have to be careful. Antonin Dolohov was a worthy adversary and someone to be watched. It wouldn't do to underestimate any of these young men – she knew what they would eventually become.

She'd also had the extreme displeasure of meeting the Head Girl on Tuesday. Autumn Rookwood, a Ravenclaw, was not nearly as self-important as she liked to think she was. Hermione had been outside of Dumbledore's office late at night, just finishing up with one of their meetings, and the tall, uptight girl with the pinched face had primly informed her that "students weren't supposed to be out of bed after curfew," and that she'd have to write Hermione up for it. Hermione had coolly responded with a terse explanation, and Dumbledore had come out into the hall to verify her story. Robbed of her chance to take Gryffindor points and give a detention to the girl that had been the sharp focus of every professor since her arrival, Rookwood had left in a huff and glared at Hermione jealously every time she saw her. Hermione would be avoiding interactions with the snot-nosed little bitch throughout her time at Hogwarts – as much as she could, at least. She didn't fancy being singled out for punishments simply because she outperformed the girl on her entry tests and in classes. She wasn't in the business of kick-starting petty rivalries.

One thing that had brought a smile to her face had been picking out which of the Slytherin students were Blacks. Alphard Black, a sixth year and Sirius' favorite uncle, was handsome and charismatic just like his nephew had been, with smiling blue-grey eyes and a mouth that was quick to grin.

His younger brother Cygnus was in his third year, already betrothed to seventh-year Druella Rosier (Gavin's cousin), who, according to Raven, had a nasty attitude and was one to watch out for (when Hermione had first laid eyes on Druella during their Transfiguration class last Wednesday morning, she had nearly jumped out of her seat at the strong resemblance between her and her future eldest daughter).

Orion, Sirius' father, was a fourth year, as she had come to understand, and was similarly betrothed to his second cousin and Alphard's older sister, Walburga, whose portrait Hermione had become well-acquainted with during her stay at Grimmauld Place.

She could tell that the three boys were Blacks simply by the fact that they all had similar bone structure, shiny black hair, and eyes of varying shades of grey. It was interesting to compare them all to their future children. Narcissa would inherit her mother's blonde hair, but the rest of her would be all Black: pale eyes, fair skin, and fine, elegant features; whereas Bellatrix and Andromeda, with the exception of their dark curly hair, would both take after their mother, with heavily lidded dark eyes and sharp, square faces of unique beauty. Sirius would take after his mother Walburga (who was apparently already graduated, thank the stars) and his uncle Alphard, while Regulus would inherit the more severe, angular visage of his father, not nearly as handsome.

It was all rather surreal.

"Granger?"

Hermione jumped, her wand out even before she turned. She came face to face with the very girl she had been thinking about just moments ago. As quickly as she had drawn it, she slipped her wand back into the holster that she had rigged up her wrist, perfect for a quick draw-and-stow.

She held a hand to her chest. "Merlin, Flynn," she said, meeting the shorter girl's dark, laughing eyes, "don't sneak up on me like that. I could've cursed you to the moon and back, just now."

Raven raised her eyebrow, smirking. "I figured a battle-honed girl like you would've been able to hear me coming a mile away," she responded smartly.

Hermione smirked back. "You do have a point. Next time, I'll be more observant; that way you'll find yourself at the end of my wand before you even finish opening the door."

The other girl chuckled, approaching the mirror and fluffing up her dark, glossy curls. If Hermione's curls had still been as unmanageable as they had been in Hogwarts, she would have been green with envy. As it was, she was grateful that they had smoothed out like Flynn's, especially after Fawkes had taken up residence in her body. Her weirdly smooth skin and shiny hair and bright eyes still unsettled and surprised Hermione every time she looked in the mirror, expecting to see frizzy hair, sallow, malnourished skin, and steady eyes the color of rich soil. It was taking some getting used to. While she had never been some raving beauty, and still wasn't, her features were somehow more eye-catching than they had been before her encounter with Fawkes, and sometimes she felt like a stranger in her own skin.

"What class do you have next?" Raven asked her, washing an ink stain from the back of one hand.

Hermione pulled her hair back into one of those ribbons that she had cleverly charmed to work like the elastics she had been able to wear in 2002; the ones that not-so-conveniently enough hadn't been invented yet. It was a relief to get her heavy hair up off of her neck, preparing for a physical DADA class.

"Advanced Defense," she replied, meeting Raven's eyes in the mirror. "You?"

"The same," she replied, reaching in her bag and pulling out a tube of crimson lipstick. As she put it on, Hermione was suddenly reminded of an old picture she'd seen of Bellatrix once. Raven looked nothing like Bellatrix except for her hair and the deep color of her eyes, but she had the same sense of style and glamour that Hermione's nemesis and former captor had possessed as a young woman: sensual, wicked and darkly alluring. The girl was similarly eye-catching. Hermione felt rather plain in comparison, but she knew that she and Raven looked nothing alike except for the texture of their hair, and that it was unfair to make comparisons. Besides, as much as she'd wanted to have pale, milky skin as a teenager, she had grown fond of her fair golden tone and the smattering of light freckles across her nose and the tops of her shoulders.

"Shall we walk together, then?" Hermione said, smiling.

"And be seen in the presence of an annoying, self-absorbed Gryffindor?" Flynn scoffed. "Of course. It's a dream come true."

Hermione snorted, and together they exited the bathroom, meandering through the halls and up the stairs in no apparent hurry. They talked some, but neither of them felt compelled to fill the silence when the conversation lulled. It was surprisingly refreshing.

"Where did you get that scar?"

Hermione turned to her and grinned, liking the fact that the girl had bluntly asked and seemed entirely unapologetic for it. "Which one?" she asked, gesturing to her whole body. "It's like looking at a map."

"Well, I'm curious about all of them, but the one that caught my eye especially is the nasty looking one that you keep cleverly hidden under your sock," Raven commented, looking down at Hermione's right calf. "The girls in your dorm room, one Iris Fawley in particular, loves to wag her tongue," she finished, looking amused and scornful at the same time.

Hermione hummed in understanding. "She should be careful; I hear those with gossiping tongues often choke on them." She shared a smile with her unlikely companion, and then looked down at her own leg. She stopped in the hallway to pull down her white knee sock.

"I was being chased by a particularly nasty werewolf in a peat bog in Indonesia," she said truthfully, remembering it well. "He managed to chomp down on my ankle and got a pawful of my leg as well. You would be surprised how sharp the teeth and claws of a werewolf in human form can be," she said conversationally, blocking out the memory of Pansy's ensuing death.

Raven's eyes were wide with both shock and greedy interest. Hermione honestly preferred the latter; it was more genuine. "It's amazing you got out of there alive," she said, staring at the puckered set of scars still healing on Hermione's leg as she pulled her sock back up. There was no sympathy in her gaze, which was just another reason to like her.

"I was one of the lucky ones," Hermione replied softly, staring at the shiny marble floor as she continued to walk. She cleared her throat. "It got infected afterwards; we didn't have the access to the potion we needed to keep it sterilized. It's been quite the ordeal to get it to heal. Of course the werewolf that bit me wasn't turned, so I wasn't infected with the curse…I just like my meat a little rarer these days," she finished, flashing a toothy smile.

She and Raven continued to walk and talk of less heavy things, like the ridiculousness of Slughorn's little club and Druella's utter hatred of anyone remotely prettier than herself. Raven was laughing at Hermione, noting that she was "sure to have a new enemy." Once again, though Hermione knew she was pretty enough, she didn't see her rivaling people like Iris Fawley or Druella Rosier or Raven herself. Perhaps she had a skewed way of seeing herself. She would have to ask Draco about it sometime. He was always honest with her.

When they reached the DADA room on the third floor, there were only a handful of students ahead of them. Of course, that handful just had to be Tom Riddle and his little minions. All of the seventh years in his little circle were here: Rosier, Mulciber, Lestrange, Nott, and Riddle himself. Lyall sat over in a corner and waved at her as she came in; she casually waved back.

"Well, Flynn, it looks like you've caught yourself a little lion cub," Rosier sneered, looking at Hermione with blatant lust-tinged disdain in his clear blue eyes. Now here was a man who thought of women as meaningless and disposable pursuits. "Doesn't she know that lions and snakes don't really…get along?"

Hermione smiled at him mildly, making sure not to look at Riddle even as he shifted, leaning up against a table, undoubtedly expecting her to look at him; he was sure to be disappointed, then. "Oh yes, I've heard about this little… _house_ _rivalry_ nonsense," she said, her tone scathing. She saw the moment that the tiniest hint of uncertainty flickered in Rosier's eyes before it flicked out again. "How… _quaint."_ She cocked her head to the side, regarding him coolly. "I generally find my attention drawn to less childish pursuits."

She smiled blandly and then turned her eyes purposefully towards Mulciber, who instantly flushed and broke out into a sweat, looking like he was about to faint. Then, without a glance in Riddle's direction, she turned towards the front of the class. When she passed by Nott, she looked briefly up at him from beneath her lashes, and saw him tug at his tie as his eyes tracked her movement up the aisle. She sat down in the seat behind Lyall, who turned around and winked at her.

Though Raven said not a word, Hermione could feel the girl's well-contained mirth as she took a seat beside Hermione, slinging her bag onto the table as silent laughter shook her petite body. In true Slytherin manner, she did not comment, not wanting to ruin the moment. Hermione sent her a secret smile, and then began to prepare for class.

She could feel the whole host of glowers that showered the back of her neck, and her lips curved in satisfaction.

* * *

oooo

Professor Galatea Merrythought was _quite_ the teacher. Probably the best instructor Hermione had ever had, though she was hard-pressed to admit it in the light of her love and respect for McGonagall, Remus and Snape. (Yes, Snape…he had always challenged her, never looked upon her favorably, and therefore she'd strived extra hard to excel in his class…he had been a good instructor, though Harry and Ron would have scoffed at her assessment.)

The Head of Ravenclaw House was older, perhaps in her sixties, but was still very pretty, with a tall, slender form and light brown hair threaded through with grey that hung in a tight braid nearly to her knees. She had shrewd grey eyes, darker and steadier than Draco's ever-changing quicksilver orbs. They watched Hermione closely as she went through the motions of dueling Lyall Lupin, struggling not to yawn behind her hand. Lyall was good, really – he had the makings of a fine Auror one day, if he wished it. But he was barely seventeen, and he had never dueled outside of school. Hermione tried to make it look like she was evenly matched, but the professor caught her eyes and saw the boredom there before Hermione could manage to look away.

She mentally groaned as Merrythought began to walk over to them, commenting on students' performances as she went. When she reached the spot where Hermione and Lyall were dueling, she held her hand up for them to stop.

"I'd very much like to speak with you after class, Miss Granger," she said with a smile. "It's nothing bad, I assure you; I merely wish to discuss some things with you in more detail." Her eyes were not cold, per say, but they were _very_ intense. Hermione nodded. "You may continue."

The professor walked away and Hermione turned back to Lyall, gritting her teeth. He smiled at her. "Again?" he asked, raising his wand.

"Again," she said, snapping out a quick _Expelliarmus_ that Lyall deflected with a spoken _"Protego!"_

She spent the rest of the class brimming with apprehension, wondering what Merrythought would have to say.

* * *

oooo

Tom considered it a stroke of luck when Merrythought let the class go ten minutes early and asked both he and the Granger girl to stay behind. _Hermione –_ for that was her name, was it not? – shifted uncomfortably under Merrythought's stony gaze.

"I'll speak with you in a moment, Tom," Merrythought said, and he sat down obediently, staring at the girl who had stubbornly _refused_ to look at him since the previous evening at dinner. He watched with interest as she picked at her cuticles, a sure sign of stress. He found himself staring at her profile and at the long line of her neck, relieved of the mass of curly hair that usually covered it. There was a thin silver scar across the front of her throat; he wondered where it had come from. Her tumultuous locks had been pulled back from her face for this class, and he noticed the colors that gleamed in the waterfall of hair that fell from the black ribbon that tied it up: ochre, chestnut, gold and auburn all swirled together to make a tempting cocktail of warmth that one might be tempted to run one's hands through, if given the chance. Not he, of course. But perhaps someone else.

Merrythought looked at the pretty girl from behind her desk. "I've heard quite a lot about you, Miss Granger," she said, her voice both curious and suspicious. "And everything I've heard indicates that you are an extraordinary student. Your placement tests far outstrip almost everyone who has ever come through this school – you might give Albus Dumbledore a run for his money."

To say that Tom was floored would have been an understatement. This… _girl…_ had almost out-performed _Dumbledore_ on her placement tests? But…she'd been such a _painfully average_ duelist. He did not even have a chance to recover before Hermione spoke through gritted teeth. She seemed irritated.

"Your point, Professor?" she ground out, her eyes flashing in annoyance. She looked anything but proud.

"Why are you holding back in my class?" Merrythought asked bluntly.

Granger crossed her arms over her chest. "What makes you think that I am?" she said enigmatically. "I'm good with books, Professor Merrythought; none of the placement tests include the practical use of magic."

Merrythought smiled at her. "Except Professor Burke says that you are able to perform wandless and nonverbal charms without batting an eyelash," she said, her eyes narrowed but her tone one of amusement.

The girl shrugged narrow shoulders. She really was very thin, Riddle thought; yet he could see the muscles of her legs as she stood there before him, and distinctly recalled the feel of her toned arms and stomach as he had nearly carried her to the hospital wing last week. Thin, but not weak.

"Charms isn't the same as DADA, Professor," she said, evading again.

"Miss Granger," Merrythought said with a long-suffering sigh, "I know when a student is holding back in my class. Mister Riddle here does it all the time. I know the signs well." She inclined her head at Tom, and he gave her a practiced smile.

To his fury, the Gryffindor still did not look at him. "Be that as it may, Professor, I am unwilling to engage myself fully simply because I don't think that it would be wise."

Merrythought frowned. "And why is that, precisely?"

Hermione put a hand on the professor's desk and leaned upon it. Tom was shocked at the utter rebelliousness he saw etched onto her face. "I haven't adjusted to peacetime just yet, Professor," she said, her tone brooking _absolutely_ no argument. "I would rather not slip up and accidentally curse an innocent student because I was foolish enough to engage in a duel with them." She leaned down to grab her bag from where she'd set it on the floor. "It wouldn't be pretty, Professor. Trust me. So please respect my wishes when I say that it would be best to leave me be and let me move at my own pace." She cracked her neck from side to side – for some reason the eerie sound made him cringe internally – and hitched her bag up on her shoulder. "Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, Professor Merrythought."

"But I also wished to speak with you about –"

Hermione was gone before Merrythought could even finish her sentence. Tom, forgetting that his professor wanted to talk to him about something as well, grabbed his bag and was after her like a shot. As she slipped around a corner, he followed.

He had attempted to do some research on phoenixes last night, but when he'd gotten to the library he'd found that all of the books on the Merlin damned birds had already been checked out for "special research" that Dumbledore was doing. How convenient.

Too convenient.

"Granger!" he shouted, trying desperately to get her attention. To his satisfaction she whirled around, looking flushed. There were no other students around.

She stepped forward, peering into his face. "Tom, right?" she asked, and rage swelled within him as she _pretended_ to not quite remember his name; he knew he was not so easily forgotten. Her eyes were full of scorn. "Tom Riddle? That's right; we met in the lavatory last Tuesday afternoon."

He looked down at her coldly, baring his teeth in a shark-like grin. "Indeed, Miss Granger." He realized, with equal amounts of trepidation and excitement, that Hermione Granger would not be blinded by his charm. She was different from most, he could tell. Therefore, he did not try to hide his true nature from her – although it would not do to let on just _how_ _much_ his real personality was covered by his charming persona. So he toed the line. But somehow he knew it would be fruitless to try to win her over as he did everyone else; she wouldn't fall for that. _Why_ she wouldn't fall for that was less certain.

"Oh, call me Hermione, please," she cooed, giving him a beautifully charming smile that was so fake he wanted to hex it right off of her face. "Since you've given me permission to use your first name, I insist that you do the same."

"I won't beat around the bush," he said, his voice assiduously restrained. He _hated_ that he had told her to call him by his first name. What an utterly thoughtless decision. Tom was not usually impulsive like that. "I dislike what you've done with my friends' brains, _Hermione_."

"I'm not sure what you speak of, _Tom,_ " she said sweetly. She looked up at him in false confusion – it was so convincing that he might have fallen for it; anyone else would have. However, he was the king of distrust and mistruths, and he saw through it immediately.

He snarled as she batted her eyelashes at him, and resisted the urge to slam her up against the nearest surface…barely. "You know exactly what I speak of!" he hissed vehemently, keeping his voice low.

"Oh – do you mean that little bit of fun in the forest?" she replied, looking up at him through abnormally long eyelashes. She held his hazy glare with a hooded look of her own that spoke of her amusement and no shortage of mockery.

"So it _was_ you," he breathed, his heart swelling with triumph at the confirmation. He gritted his teeth. How? How had this girl beat both Ambrose and Edmond? She was perhaps powerful and skilled for a witch, and in possession of good instincts, but not good enough to have disarmed both of them so easily. Did she have an accomplice? Did that infernal phoenix have something to do with it? It simply wasn't _possible_ for her to have done it on her own. "I'm not fond of people who mess with my things," he said tightly, his heart thumping with carefully controlled anger and a gnawing, hungry sort of curiosity. He wanted answers.

"And I'm not fond of people who meddle in my _affairs,"_ she snarled suddenly, moving closer so that she was only inches in front of his face. "Perhaps you should do a better job of training your stooges." She hooted in laughter, moving away from him and twirling around fancifully. "They fell so quickly under my wand, Tom," she said, her eyes flashing with mirth and with fire that was gone as quickly as it had come.

Holding her stare was like falling into an ocean, limitless as far as the eye could see. Though at first there was nothing apparently remarkable about those intelligent, multifaceted brown eyes – other than being very pretty and wonderfully bright – it simply felt as if there was a current beneath the surface, moving, shifting, _churning._ And then they would flash with color and untold depths, and he found it nearly impossible to look away.

"You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, _girl,"_ he said, sneering.

She hummed, looking up at the ceiling. "I used to be a girl," she said mildly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "I was rather dangerous then." She looked back at him, and her eyes swirled with something fatal that shone crimson in the dim light of the hallway. "I'm a very dangerous _woman_ now, Tom."

He was stunned when she stepped towards him and went up onto her tiptoes, brushing her lips against his ear. His body betrayed him, and he flushed from head to toe. She smelled like sugar, lavender, parchment and the barest hint of wood smoke. Her lips burned hot where they touched the shell of his ear. He froze.

"Careful, Riddle," she said quietly. "One of these days you might end up biting off more than you can chew. Be sure you don't choke on it." She pulled back then, and reached up to straighten his tie with nimble fingers, her amber eyes gleaming dangerously. "And poking a sleeping lion is never wise."

"Neither is provoking a snake," he hissed, batting her hands away from his neck impatiently. How dare she touch him without his permission!

She smiled up at him slyly. "And yet which of the two of us has done the provoking so far? I was content to leave you in peace, Mr. Riddle," she continued. She licked her bottom lip and eyed him from top to bottom. "Now you've _really_ gone and attracted my attention." She stared up at him unnervingly. There was not a hint of coyness or kindness in her eyes anymore; they were cold and dark and dangerous, the eyes of a predator assessing her prey.

He glared down at her, undaunted. "You don't scare me, _Granger,"_ he said, looming over her threateningly. "Pull a stunt like you did in the forest again, and you _will_ regret it. I would hate for anything _unfortunate_ to befall your little friend in the hospital." His smile was sinister.

Tom was generally very sensitive to other people's auras, and he hadn't picked up on anything from Hermione Granger in the past week other than the brief flash of magic he'd felt in the bathroom; he had not truly taken her seriously as a result. So when he felt it – her magic – rolling across his skin, he couldn't keep the surprise from his face. It was like a lightning storm over a volcano: roiling darkness crackling with shards of pure energy, underscored with a blisteringly hot base that felt like a bubbling lake of lava – dormant, but a hair's breadth away from erupting. It licked over his own magical aura in a wicked caress.

She stepped forward, and the desire to step away from her warred with the desire to touch her, to bathe in the exquisite richness of her power. Her eyes held him captive, irises sparkling with shifting flecks of burgundy, amethyst, gold, obsidian, an entire spectrum of colors that exploded in and out of being like the very stars themselves. They held promises that were dark and bittersweet like the richest chocolate and called to him just as the unsettling vibrations of her distinctive magical tones did.

When she spoke, her voice was low and dangerous. "Let me make something clear, _Tom Riddle,"_ she said, lifting her face to his. "If you so much as _touch_ Draco, I will _gut_ you."

Tom allowed a slow smile to stretch across his face. So, the bitch had a weakness. "Touchy, touchy," he said mockingly, his mind whirring with the possibilities. "Perhaps you should keep his safety in mind, then, little lion," he teased.

The look on her face would have been utterly terrifying to anyone _but_ him. As it was, it was still disturbing in its intensity. "Perhaps you should keep _your_ safety in mind, Riddle," she said, with an eyebrow raised. "And perhaps you should be careful with whom you threaten – you wouldn't want to go ruining that illustrious reputation you've managed to build, would you?" she said cooly.

He raised an eyebrow in return, but did not reply. There was nothing she could do to damage his reputation – she was a stranger here, and he was the favored Head Boy who had spent his entire school career charming the people around him. Still, it gave him pause. Perhaps he had been too quick to underestimate her.

In a split second, her expression lightened, and her magical aura faded as quickly as it had appeared. "Will you be attending our History of Magic class with Professor Binns?" she asked, looking down at the schedule in her hands.

He looked at her, puzzled at the sudden shift in demeanor. "It was my intention, yes."

She smiled up at him placidly. "Would you care to walk with me? I find myself sometimes getting turned around in these halls. It's only been just over a week since I've been here, after all."

Tom did not quite know how to respond to that. He cleared his throat. He was… _unused…_ to being thrown off balance by a girl. But this one definitely threw him off balance.

He hated her for it.

Unable to come up with a suitably scathing response, he merely held his arm out for her to take, his eyebrow raised skeptically. When she wrapped her hand around his elbow he once again felt hints of her strange magic sear through his shirt and seep into his skin. He was sure she felt his shudder, but she neglected to comment on it, and he quickly fell into step beside her.

"Partner with me in DADA tomorrow," he said impulsively, wanting, _needing_ to pit his magic against hers. "I believe you might offer me a challenge." At least more of a challenge than anyone else could manage to give him, with the exception of Dolohov, who was a superb duelist.

She looked at him sideways through those annoyingly long lashes, and smiled. "Oh I doubt that," she said kindly. She patted his arm. "I hear you are _quite_ the duelist. I'm certain I could never beat Hogwarts' most esteemed Head Boy."

Her words were charming and genuinely humble, and upon initial inspection they would appear to be entirely sincere, but there was something in her voice that grated against his nerves.

"You mock me," he said in return, the smooth timbre of his voice betraying nothing of his irritations.

He felt, rather than heard, her snigger. "I would very much like to partner with you in DADA, Tom," she said as they rounded the corner. "You're _very_ observant."

"Indeed, Miss Granger." She nearly made him laugh. If he were in the business of being made fun of, he would have found her wit delightful. However, she was instead a giant thorn in his side. As gentlemanly as he could manage in the face of such a splinter (albeit a very good-looking splinter), he removed her hand from his arm and held it in his own to help her step down onto one of the moving stairwells in the Grand Staircase.

"Come now, Tom, don't let's slip back into using each other's surnames – we've already made leaps and bounds in this relationship," she said, stepping neatly onto the top step of the staircase with him and barely shifting as it lurched in movement, swinging downwards. Once again, her tone jested with him.

"You do know how to try my patience, don't you?" he asked with a sigh, turning to face her. She had somehow ended up on the step above him, and as such her eyes were level with his.

"I'm glad to fill such an important space in your life, Tom Riddle," she said, her pretty lips quirking up into a smile that reached her eyes this time. "It's everything that I'd hoped for and more."

His eyes narrowed on hers, but he could not, for the life of him, keep the humor from showing on his face. Bantering with her was…entertaining. "You're quite the comedian, aren't you, _Hermione?"_

"Only for you."

"I have questions."

"Of course you do."

"Don't toy with me, Hermione."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it, Tom. Honestly. You give me far too much credit." When she smiled this time, her cheek dimpled and her teeth flashed bright white. "I am merely a lowly witch, and, as your two friends demonstrated in the forest, men are far superior than women. I'm certain that you've put me up on a pedestal where I just don't belong."

His fury was back tenfold as she reminded him of his followers' failures, but, just as he was considering tossing her spitefully from the moving staircase, it jolted into place on the second floor and a multitude of students got on as Hermione and he got off to continue down. He got a couple of strange looks from a few of the older students they passed. He hadn't realized that he was still, effectively, holding her hand. It was very small, and very soft.

They got onto another staircase, and this time she was a step below him, the top of her head level with his chest. Her eyes were laughing at him, peering up at him through those _Merlin-damned_ eyelashes. He wanted to yank them all out, one by one.

As if she could feel his murderous intent, she squeezed his hand. "Now, Tom," she said, and her voice was low and soft and without humor. "You wouldn't want to do anything that you might regret later, right?" she said, her eyes a steady ochre with flecks of chestnut, free of any mind-boggling colors. "After all, I hear the school nearly closed down a couple of years ago. We wouldn't want a repeat of anything like that to happen, would we? After all, I don't know about _you,_ but _I_ for one don't have anyplace else to go."

The familiarity with which she spoke about the incident in which the school closed down gave him pause, but when he looked down, there was nothing in her expression that indicated that she knew anything out of the ordinary. Then again, he didn't know _what_ this girl knew. She was so much more than what he'd originally thought. And the quip about not having anywhere else to go…what exactly _did_ she know, and how much of it was about him? He didn't like it. He didn't like _her._

"I hear that you and your little friend are very good at taking care of yourselves – I'm sure you'll figure something out," he said snidely. When her eyes flashed with sorrow, gone as quickly as it had come, he knew he had hit a sore spot. It should not have bothered him, but it did.

"Well, as you so eloquently put it, me and my little _friend_ aren't having such a great stroke of luck lately, what with him slowly _dying_ and all," she snapped.

He narrowed his eyes. "You said nothing about his condition being fatal," he hedged, feeling both uneasy and suspicious.

"I said nothing about it _not_ being fatal," she bit back, removing her hand from his and crossing her arms.

"I threatened him, and you jumped to his defense as if he were the most precious thing on _earth,"_ he retorted, angry that he'd been conned. "You played me."

"He _is_ the most precious thing on earth to me, Mr. Riddle," Granger said scathingly, her eyes filled with incredible pain. "He is, in fact, the _only_ thing I have left. And yes, he is dying, and yes, I did play you." She suddenly yawned, all traces of emotion gone from her face in the time that it took him to blink. "But you make it so _easy._ And you're so easily worked up, as well. See? Even now you're getting all red in the face."

His eyebrow quirked as he looked down at her. "I don't get red in the face. You don't get me worked up. And you are, perhaps, the _only_ person who has _ever_ managed to manipulate me in such a manner. Congratulations. Your memory modification with my friends in the forest was a nice touch. Perilialis. You really do have _quite_ the sense of humor, Miss Granger. _Hermione."_

There was that ever so subtle dimple that flashed in her cheek when she smiled – really smiled. There was a single freckle – one that had escaped from the group on her nose – that disappeared inside that dimple every time it popped up, and he couldn't help but stare at it.

"I thought you might appreciate that."

"You shouldn't have tortured my friends, Hermione. And what were you doing with that phoenix, anyway?"

"You shouldn't have sent them into the forest to spy on me, Tom. It's not polite to stalk a lady. I could have been bathing in a streamor something. _Nude."_ As she said the word, an image of her figure, unclothed and covered in battle scars, rose to his mind. He shook it off angrily. "And Fawkes and I are friends."

When the staircase ground to a halt on the first floor, she waited for him to get off. He did, sporting a scowl all the while, and offered her his hand. She took it graciously. "You know what we call men who watch people without them knowing? Peeping Toms. I suppose you were aptly named, then. It was almost fate."

"Enough!" he snapped quietly, his amusement replaced, once again, with anger; partially with himself, for allowing him the weakness of thinking of a woman in such a way, bathing in a stream. Merlin. As if he had _time_ for that sort of nonsense. "As I've said before, it isn't your place to touch my things."

To his annoyance, she didn't move away from him – she stepped closer to him and took up her position at his elbow as she had done before they'd gotten to the stairs, tucking her fingers into the crook of his elbow. Gritting his teeth but obliged to play the gentleman in public, conscientious of the looks he kept receiving in the halls, he allowed it to happen. Just to bother her, he set his other hand on top of where hers lay curled around his arm. Using wandless magic, he sent a flare of heat into her skin.

She hissed, but did not budge. She looked up at him through hot, narrowed eyes as they continued to walk, slowly making their way towards their History of Magic class. "You know, Tom, I don't think your 'friends' would take nicely to you calling them your 'things.'" She hummed. "'Things' seems so plebeian, don't you think? So common. Don't they at least deserve a term like 'object' or 'item'? Oh, or how about 'possession'?"

Tom hissed in turn when his own arm went as hot as an iron. "I think possession might be a little too lofty."

The sound of her tinkling laughter was so melodious and so unexpected that he nearly stumbled. When he looked to his right, her head was bowed in laughter and her dark eyes were crinkled with mirth.

"I think you might be right," she said, straightening with a smile on her face. "Although they do both have potential. Don't worry," she said, waving her free hand. "I didn't give them any new scars."

"Not wanting to be outdone?" he said, commenting on the number of scars she was reported to have littering her body. He had to admit, he _was_ curious.

She raised an eyebrow, looking at him askance. "Listening to locker room talk now, Riddle? Surely you've got better things to do."

He grunted in agreement. "Unfortunately, there are only so many places you can get away with casting silencing charms upon your own ears – it's generally frowned upon in public."

Once again, her laugh was like music. "Iris Fawley does have that kind of voice that seems to effectively permeate whatever haven you might have made for yourself. And I am aware that it might seem to her as if I have been drawn and quartered and sewn back together. What was she saying this time?"

"Something about a manticore?" he said, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, its ridiculous the things she comes up with."

She hummed. "Well, that one might be at least partially true. What, exactly, did she say that I was _doing_ with said manticore? I assure you, it was nothing inappropriate," she joked.

Tom gave her a skeptical look. "What _would_ you be doing with a manticore, Granger?"

"In this instance, _running_ from it." She moved her fingers like little legs, and he made an effort to close his mouth. "There are two states of being around any manticore: running, and dying. Luckily, it was the former for Draco and me."

"And just to be clear," he said, trying to contain his skepticism and excitement – for what manner of a woman was this?! – "this was a different incident to the one where you got that scar on your leg?"

She clucked her tongue. "I told you before, Tom, that one came from a _werewolf._ I would have danced with that manticore a million times over if it had meant I never had to deal with that werewolf." The haunted look in her eyes told Tom that it was about more than just the scar. In fashion true to her nature, though – at least what he had seen of it so far – she turned it into a joke. "At least the scar from the cantankerous manticore is hidden on my back, unlikely to be seen by most – the nasty monstrosity on my leg is seen on a daily basis, and it still refuses to heal completely." Her tone was one of annoyance as she stared down at said leg. "I'm not usually one for vanity, Tom Riddle, but…well. Living in a dorm with the pretty Iris Fawley with her smooth, girlish skin does _wonders_ for my ego, you know."

"Is she pretty?" Tom murmured absently, looking nowhere but at the girl strolling casually next to him. "I hadn't noticed." He had. But he hadn't cared. He still didn't care about Iris Fawley, no matter if her father had once been the Minister for Magic. He did, however, care about _Hermione Granger._ He couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to kill her or _own_ her. He was still on the fence. Of course, she could turn out to be nothing more than a pretty face – but somehow he didn't think so. "And what about the lovely colors that decorated your abdomen when we met so spontaneously in the loo last week?"

She hummed. "Precisely why there aren't more co-ed loos, Riddle," she muttered jokingly, and he couldn't help but relish in the faint tinge of color high on her cheeks. "The bruises and broken ribs were the courtesy of a lovely piece of rubble thrown my way by a nasty piece of wizard, compounded by a very painful fall to the floor later on – the one responsible for breaking my wrist, I suspect," she said. "The nice new slash that still hasn't completely gone crusty was from a basic slicing spell that I was too slow to block. Clumsy, on my part. The purple scar…" She paused, and her eyes flashed with clear murderous intent. "I've had that for a very long time."

"A very long time, you say?" he said, frowning. "How old are you, exactly?"

"Just turned eighteen," she said, and even as it came out of her mouth he knew she was lying. But was she older or younger? Must have been older. He might as well ask, while she was being forthcoming.

"And how old are you _really?"_

The smirk that curved her lips was sinful. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

He laughed. It was probably the first genuine laugh he'd had…since the last time she'd made him laugh. Which was all of minutes ago. And before that…had he laughed once at something Edmond had said? He distinctly recalled laughing as he stood over his father's dead body…but that was different. "All right. I'll give on that. And when was your birthday? Did you miss it?"

She went so still next to him that he felt himself jerk to a halt. "Er, yes. I mean, no. I mean…" Her eyes blinked rapidly, like she was struggling to get her sight back after going blind for a moment. "It was the nineteenth."

Tom frowned, and they continued walking, still drawing stares from the students that milled around them, all on their way to class. It wasn't often that Tom Riddle walked with anyone in the halls; especially not a girl. When asked later, he would simply say that he was helping the poor lost transfer student feel welcome and find her way to class.

"You didn't celebrate it?" he asked.

She shrugged, but there was a tension to her shoulders that spoke of severe stress. A dark stain, perhaps, on an already dark past. "Haven't in a while."

"And why is that?"

She suddenly looked up at him, and her smile was strained. "Perhaps a story for another time, Tom Riddle," she said, and she withdrew her hand from his arm in a lingering caress. "I believe we've arrived." She grinned. "It has been an absolute treat walking with you this afternoon, Tom," she said, inclining her head respectfully. "I look forward to doing more of it in the future."

The sudden formality with which she addressed him boggled his mind, but it was just another piece of the puzzle.

She was a study in contradictions. Despite her acerbic wit, she had a pleasing voice. Despite her multitude of scars, she was one of the most physically appealing people he'd had yet to meet. Though her eyes and face were impressively impassive most of the time, sometimes they would flash with such scalding heat that he felt the burn of it on his very skin. And though most of the time he had been in her company – even in the same room as her – he had felt no inkling of any sort of unique power, when she had let it loose in the 3rd floor corridor a few minutes ago it had been as profound and unusual as any magical aura he'd ever felt except his own. And despite the history of kindness he saw etched onto her features, he also was aware of the darkness that lurked behind her eyes; years of laughter, and years of pain. And though he would admit that he greatly enjoyed her company, he couldn't help but want to throw her off of a high cliff. She was a potential ally and tool – but also a potential threat. And, as much as he had not wanted to see it, perhaps she was more of a threat than he'd initially given her credit for. And yet just how much credit _should_ he give her?

"Likewise, Hermione," he said, bowing over her hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the golden skin that stretched over her knuckles. These too, were scarred, as if she had punched through a pane of glass, and they smelled of the same scents he'd picked up on earlier: brown sugar, lavender, parchment, and fire. "I'm sure if I don't catch you after class then I will sometime tomorrow before our duel in DADA."

"Catch me, Mr. Riddle?" she said with a smirk, sliding her hand from his. Her eyes were mischievous and warm now, a far cry from the cold murder he'd seen in them earlier. "Oh, I doubt that."

The wink she sent him before she stepped into the classroom had him shivering in dark anticipation.

oooo

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 **Once again, thanks so much to those of you who review. I wish I had the time to respond to all of them personally, but I've been working like crazy lately and barely have time to update my stories. I have up to chapter 12 pre-written, fortunately, but I'm having a hard time finding the time to write more. It's slow going. From now on, it'll just be one chapter a week until I can use some of my break time over the holidays to catch up and get several more chapters knocked out so that I can get back to updating twice a week.**

 **Love you guys!**

 **Giraffe :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**Just a note: Hermione is not meant to be some raving beauty in this fic. She's very pretty, and yes, beautiful, but she's not like a model. She's relatively true to canon. And Fawkes' presence hasn't changed the way she looks - he's only brightened everything, so to speak. So her features haven't changed, per say, she just is a little more eye-catching because of her "inner glow" (or some such rubbish - I don't really know how to explain it). So this isn't one of those stories where she's not only super awesome and powerful but suddenly angelically gorgeous as well (have you ever ready those annoying fics where all of a sudden Hermione has blue eyes and black, luscious curls and a "perfect hourglass figure" with a "D-cup" and all that rot? Ugh. So tacky. Like, way to strip Hermione of all of her defining physical characteristics).**

 **Anyways, I just wanted to bring that up. I won't promise not to fall prey to all cliches, but I'll at least try to avoid the stupid ones. Please, y'all, give me _some_ credit.**

 **Also, don't you worry: Tom isn't always this mild. He is simply watching, waiting, observing, because he doesn't quite know what to make of Hermione. But believe me, he's a bad guy. He's just not always bad to _her_ ; he's way to curious and, I'll admit, _enraptured_ of her to risk unleashing the darkness just yet. But he's bad in a sophisticated way, you know? He's diabolical and clever and way too cool for the "rape pillage and burn" sort of thing. But he's no pansy, don't worry. It's coming. I'm just biding my time.**

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oooo

The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts. – C.S. Lewis

There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain, the mind must leave reality behind. –Patrick Rothfuss

Everything that's realistic has some sort of ugliness in it. Even a flower is ugly when it wilts, a bird when it seeks its prey, the ocean when it becomes violent. –Sharon Tate

You and I, you and I  
We're not that different, you and I  
Oh you and I, you and I  
We're not that different, you and I  
\- "Two Evils" by Bastille

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oooo

 _Saturday, September 25, 1999  
_ _Malfoy Manor_

" _Have you managed to get her to talk?"_

 _Hermione stands as still as a stone, her chin lifted proudly. She stares stubbornly at the decorative tapestry that hangs on the wall above the throne that Voldemort sits upon. It is red. A color that has recently become very prevalent in her life._

 _Bellatrix is bowing and scraping and equal parts adoring and nervous. "No, My Lord. Only useless babble."_

 _Voldemort hums. Hermione must not look him in the eye. She_ _ **must**_ _not. "And you, Dolohov, have you managed to get inside her head?"_

 _Hermione sees Dolohov swallow out of the corner of her eye. She mentally smiles. Wouldn't it be a breath of fresh air for her tormentors to be tormented?_

" _No, My Lord," the Brit of Russian descent says. One of his dark eyes, surrounded with heavy wrinkles that show his age, twitches minutely. "She has a very…unusual mind."_

 _Voldemort does not have eyebrows, but if he had they would be high upon his forehead. "So unusual that my best Legilimens cannot crack it?"_

 _Dolohov shifts on his feet. He has been loyal to his Lord since the very beginning, but Voldemort is no longer as sane as he once was, his mind is no longer as clear, and Dolohov knows this. The favoritism that would have saved him from harsh retribution once upon a time has little place in the Death Eater ranks now._

" _Unfortunately, My Lord."_

 _Voldemort rises from his throne, and Hermione tries not to tremble. Voldemort has been away, doing Merlin knows what, and this is the first time he has been back since she'd been captured. She only hopes that she can protect her secrets from his spectacular Legilimency. He is unparalleled when it comes to the mind magics, and after a week of consistent torture Hermione is afraid that he will glide through her brain with ease and pluck out all of the important information about the Order. It will be a death sentence to them all if she cannot keep this red-eyed demon from her thoughts._

 _When he comes to stand in front of her, she stares at her feet: bare, dirty, her toenails long and cracked. When he lifts her chin and uses a wandless, nonverbal spell to force her eyes to meet his gaze, she prepares her mind for his assault. She knows her walls will fall in due time, and so she readies her own Legilimency for attack, hoping that she will catch him off guard strongly enough to make him think twice about attempting this again._

 _His eyes are liquid crimson, the exact color and luster of a puddle of fresh blood. It is disgusting and unnerving, and she struggles to keep her mind from entering panic mode. Somehow she manages._

 _When the Dark Lord begins his assault on her mind, she lasts nearly six minutes before she feels him start to disassemble her Occlumency brick by brick; it is far longer than she had expected to hold out – she holds on for as long as she is able by sheer force of will. When he makes a hole wide enough to push through, she is waiting for him._

 _The tendrils of her consciousness screech in anger in the face of his own dark psyche, and she feels him shudder in surprise before she pushes the enraged shadows of her mind past his invading presence, through the fissure he has created and into his unsuspecting, unprotected brain. For who would think to guard their own mind when they are expecting to be the only one attacking? This is her greatest talent, when it comes to the magics of the mind. And it is the only thing standing between the Dark Lord and the Order._

 _She is not in his head for long before he forces her out, but the things she sees in there immediately make her want to vomit and run for cover. She has felt her own psyche become dark and damaged even over just a week in captivity, and it continues to cloud as each miserable day goes by, but it is nothing compared to the blackness and utter evil that festers within the mind of the Dark Lord. She forces herself to push through for as long as she can manage, but is admittedly relieved when he shoves her out – she is just beginning to lose her way in that jumbled, psychotic mess, and if left any longer she may become irreversibly tainted._

 _His scream of anger is a terrible thing to behold, and when he rips her from his mind he also throws her across the room with his rage-fueled power. Her body hits the far wall and she feels her head crack against the stone. She does not need to feel the wet trickle of blood on her neck to know that she has a nasty concussion. She crumples to the floor._

 _She manages to look up once more before she loses consciousness. Feeling a small amount of smug satisfaction, she smiles at the furious dark wizard, puts up her Occlumency walls (though she knows Voldemort will not dare to enter her mind while she sleeps, his own sanity at risk of fracturing even further if trapped inside her unconscious mind; while he may have attempted this once upon a time, and while he is still an unparalleled Legilimens, he is no longer sound of mind enough to not get stuck inside the darkness of a sleeping brain), and slips into slumber._

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oooo

Tom Riddle was only a shadow of the creature he would become, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. And Hermione respected that. She would be a fool not to.

The realization that she was not afraid of him, however, was a rather unexpected one. Respect, yes. Wariness, yes. Caution, yes. The more than occasional flutter of her nerves, most definitely. But, oddly enough, not fear; at least not that full-blown, nausea-inducing septic sort of terror that his older counterpart had inspired.

The difference: this Tom Riddle, the young one that had not yet been ripped into eight pieces, only three – this version of him was sane. He could be reasoned with. He was not yet wholly sure of his own power and talents, and this gave her an advantage. For while _she_ certainly knew what he was capable of, _he_ was not yet aware of just how unstoppable a force he could, and would, be.

Hermione, though, knew exactly what _she_ could do. With the exception of Fawkes' magic and her odd new wand, which she was slowly becoming accustomed to, Hermione knew her own magic inside and out, and she was comfortable with her abilities. She knew that she would be able to withstand whatever might be in store for her here in 1944…hopefully.

Now there was a complication that she hadn't foreseen, however. She had _more_ than effectively piqued Tom Riddle's interest, and she didn't quite know what to do with the fact that he seemed to actually _like_ her. Hermione wasn't usually in the business of being liked. Her know-it-all ways and acerbic wit tended to rub people the wrong way, not to mention the cynicism that tainted her world view these days. And yes, she was putting on a good show for the students here, especially her housemates, and she seemed to be liked well enough, but that wasn't the _real_ her. The genuine Hermione was the one that Tom Riddle had talked to in the halls just a few minutes ago, and while she knew she had irritated the hell out of him, he also seemed to be genuinely interested in her, and it wasn't with the negative vibe that she'd been expecting; her interaction with him had been mostly rather cordial, if not laced with a few mean-spirited barbs, acidic humor and an undertone of challenges and dark promises. He seemed to appreciate those qualities.

Hermione guessed that Tom Riddle had never actually been challenged, and that he'd become rather bored over the course of his Hogwarts education. She could use that.

She would have to be careful, though. She'd been shocked at just how easy it was to talk to him, how much she'd _enjoyed_ their banter. Getting too comfortable around him could prove to be very dangerous indeed.

The question was: just how close did she want to get to Riddle? Did she keep him at arms length, or attempt to get into his good graces and perhaps spend more time with him? The prospect of being in the presence of the young Lord Voldemort again had her simultaneously nervous and excited. And that terrified her, because there should have been _nothing_ appealing about the man who was responsible for all of the death and loss and misery in her life. _Nothing._

She thought again of Ron. She wondered how horrified he would have been to see her walk through the halls with the monster that had orchestrated the deaths of him and nearly his entire family. She could not help but feel a profound and overwhelming sense of shame.

Then again, this Tom Riddle hadn't done any of those things yet. He had only just murdered in cold blood this past summer, in the case of his father and grandparents (Myrtle's death two years ago had been unintentional, though it was considered murder all the same – enough for him to make a horcrux, at least). He had a small group of followers, but he had not amassed an army, he had not taken over the Ministry, and he had not tortured and killed thousands of people. He had the potential for these things, of course. He would grow up to become that monster. In fact, she knew that the monster was already taking shape – he just hadn't ceased to be a man yet. And the man – the human part of him that could be reasoned with, that still had some feelings, however muted and detached they were – could be exploited.

Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort were not yet completely one and the same. And the rift between the two, though small, could perhaps be widened.

Hermione had no illusions that she could change him, make him better. She didn't _want_ to. She knew that his soul was beyond saving. But if she could somehow keep him from becoming the red-eyed monster from her future, things might be different. If she could divert his attention from his prejudice so that he could focus on something more productive, things might not turn out the way they had in her time. It had never been his original intention, after all, to eradicate muggles and muggleborns – merely to subjugate them, to rule over them. But perhaps he could be moved to a different path? He had never had any positive experiences with muggles and muggleborns. What if she could show him their worth? What if she, using herself as an example, could get him to see the truth – that muggleborns were just as worthy as purebloods and halfbloods? What if she could show him how they could be _used_ , just like anyone else, to further his chances for power? What if she could provide him with a carrot big enough to tempt him into working with muggleborns, or at least tolerating them, rather than attempting to make them second-class citizens unworthy of their magic?

Of course, the only carrot she could think of that would be flashy enough to catch and _keep_ his attention was _her._ She would have to be the carrot. If she could show him just how useful she could be to him, what kind of an ally she could offer, and then reveal her heritage to him – would it work? Would it be enough to sway his prejudiced opinions? Would the truth shine through the bigotry and hatred?

Of course, if she were to attempt such a thing she would royally fuck up the timeline. She had already changed things, however minutely, just by being here – to meddle in such a significant manner in the affairs of one of the most influential figures in wizarding history might backfire horribly.

Then again, it wasn't like it could be a whole lot worse than how it had ended up.

She would have to talk to Draco about it. When he woke up. Everyday, she felt his absence more keenly. And _God,_ Harry, her Harry…

She may never see her best friend again. The thought of living out the rest of her life here, alone, in an era where women did not often get Ministry positions of any importance, was daunting and depressing.

She only had her revenge to keep her company. And Fawkes, although having a single friend that couldn't actually carry on a conversation did not sound much better than being completely friendless in the first place.

"And the Statute of Secrecy was first implemented in…? Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked up, returning from her inner thoughts to reality once again. This version of Professor Binns – very much still _alive_ – was slightly different than the one from her generation. Though he looked incredibly old, and he was still _horribly_ boring, he did ask his students questions. It was a strange sort of thing. The ghost from her time had just droned on and on and on until he fell asleep in his own class.

"1692, sir," Hermione answered. Honestly, this was second year material!

"Actually, Professor, I believe the correct answer is 1689."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Leave it to Tom Riddle to try to one-up her in class. What a pompous arse.

She turned around in her chair, allowing an amused smile to play across her features. "The Statute was _signed_ in 1689, Tom. It was implemented in 1692. _Do_ try to keep up."

The way in which she said it wasn't exactly intentional – it was just in her nature to want to be the most knowledgeable person in the room, and when combined with her ever-present hatred for Riddle (no matter how intriguing she found him and how much she enjoyed talking to him, she would never not hate him), she could not stop the barb from passing through her lips.

She was on the fence of whether or not to regret it, however. On one hand, the look Tom gave her was absolutely murderous – she could tell by the tightening of his lips and the hard flash of his eyes. Of course, to the rest of the class he would look impassive; Hermione knew better.

On the other hand, it got everyone in the class to quietly gasp and turn to look at her. She guessed that, in addition to the insult against their _precious, perfect_ Head Boy, people were not in the habit of using his first name. She'd suspected it before, but this confirmed it. Which was still a mystery: why was he allowing it? In fact, why had he _encouraged_ it? He'd only spoken to her twice, and briefly at that, before asking her to call him by his given name, and then had not corrected her during their interaction today (though she suspected it was because he didn't want to lose face in front of her). Why would he grant such a boon to someone he didn't even know? Even though Voldemort was known for making the odd impulsive decision - he did have something of a rage problem, after all - young Tom Riddle was far more controlled, and it seemed slightly out of place.

Regardless, she couldn't help but feel a sense of smug satisfaction. While Hermione would never gloat over someone's failures or mistakes, that did not apply to Lord Voldemort. Few of her rules applied to him – including her code of ethics and morals, however bent they might be these days. And so she relished in his obvious discomfort, and though she somewhat feared retribution, she also was curious to see what he would do about her blatant slight. She was almost… _excited._

She was sure that that alone pointed to madness.

She also enjoyed the subtle tones of disbelief and awe that came from the rest of the students in the class. She wanted to be on equal footing with him in whatever ways possible – this included their respective places in the eyes of their peers. Clearly someone who was willing to snub _Tom Riddle_ was either crazy or unflinchingly brave; someone who should be respected in either case.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but it is somewhat difficult to pay attention when I'm so distracted by the living, breathing _thing_ that you call hair." He gave her a scathing look. His voice was smooth and perfect and utterly deadly. It _dripped_ with dark promise. A handful of girls tittered, looking at Tom with longing in their eyes. Druella Rosier and Primrose Selwyn (who Hermione assumed would become Posy Parkinson's mother and Pansy's grandmother, they all looked so similar) sat behind Tom, looking completely enraptured.

In her past life Hermione may have found his insult wounding. As it was, she couldn't help but chuckle gently and smile at him, and she did not miss the flash of surprise and uncertainty that registered in his dark, bitter eyes. She patted her ponytail fondly. "I do admit it can be rather distracting. It obviously takes someone with a good work ethic to ignore such unsightly distractions, don't you think? Perhaps that's an area that we all have room in which to grow," she said. She made her tone kind and gentle, smoothing her expression into one of calm concern and nicety.

Simply because she knew it would piss him off.

As if he knew that she was purposefully needling him, and recognizing the laughter around her eyes that he'd gotten acquainted with on their walk through the halls, he made an effort to relax, though one of his eyes twitched. She allowed a small smirk when he sent her a charming smile. Though she often struggled to read him, she could tell he was battling with both anger and amusement, much as he had during their interactions a few minutes ago.

"You're absolutely right, of course," he said smoothly. "I will certainly endeavor to pay better attention next time. As you said, maintaining a good work ethic is something that we students could all improve upon."

"Quite right, quite right," Professor Binns said, looking between the two as they smiled at each other from across the room: he on the left side, towards the back, and she on the right side in the front row. "And what was the main cause of this very necessary law?"

Both Tom's and Hermione's hands flew up. They looked at each other once again, and shared a secret smile. She instantly hated herself for it, but pushed her self-loathing back to the darkest corners of her brain.

"Mister Riddle, please enlighten us," Binns said.

"Persecution of wizardkind by muggles, sir. Most notably the Salem Witch Trials in the American colonies."

"Very good, Mister Riddle. Ten points to both Slytherin and Gryffindor, for not only correct answers but also healthy, amenable interactions between rival houses. May you be an example to others," the ancient professor said. Though he seemed to be pleased, there was very little change on his face – he just looked old and bored, as usual.

Hermione very purposefully did not look at Tom for the rest of the class, though she could feel his eyes slide over her form in a slithering caress that had her stomach tied in knots. She could also feel the hum of his magic, though he kept his aura concealed, much like she did. Still, she was now attuned to it. During their interaction in the hallway, when he'd threatened Draco and her emotions spiked enough to dispel the containment of her magical aura, she'd touched his magic with her own and was immediately both taken with it and disgusted by it.

If Tom Riddle's magic had a color, it wouldn't be black like she had expected. It was rather like a mottled mixture of very dark green and purple. The color of a basilisk's scales next to an eggplant (an odd comparison, she thought, and she giggled to herself; never would she have used "basilisk" and "eggplant" together in the same sentence). And though there was plenty of darkness and, she would admit, blatant _evil,_ there was also something conflicted about it. Perhaps it was because of his split soul; or perhaps it was because he did have something of a conscience – or at least the shadow of one – and was struggling on where to draw certain lines. For example: she doubted that _this_ Tom Riddle would be able to kill a defenseless child. She would bet money on it, actually. After feeling his aura with her own, even for such a short time, she just knew that there were still lines that he refused to cross, though they were certainly few and far between.

But the fact remained that they were _there._ Those lines existed. Perhaps they weren't entirely solid, and some of them surely wavered, and she knew eventually they would disappear altogether as the man became the monster – but they were fucking _there._ She could use them.

She was slightly overwhelmed, however, by the pure raw _power_ that he held. Hermione had power. Hermione knew people with power. But no one she'd ever met had had the sheer force that Tom Riddle possessed. Albus Dumbledore was very powerful, she knew. Harry's magic, after he'd learned to really embrace it, packed a huge punch. Her own magic, especially with her rightful wand and Fawkes' odd presence in her body, was a force to be reckoned with. But nothing could ever compare to the power of this one man.

She hated to admit it, but it frightened her with its intensity. Not in the sense that she was fearful of what he would do to her with that magic (what could he do to her now that could trump what he'd done to her in their future? Nothing. There was little he could scare her with now); she was simply afraid of the overwhelming magnitude of it. It also excited her. She had _felt_ it. It was spectacular, and addictive, and she couldn't wait for the opportunity to arise where she might get to touch it again. She was ashamed that she felt this way, but try as she might she could not stamp down her greed for it.

This is why people always said that power corrupted. Because it did. In any form, even those thought to be benevolent, power could become an out-of-control monster that destroyed all around it. And while pre-war Hermione would have sniffed in disdain and claimed herself above such a thing, post-war Hermione was _very_ aware of just how susceptible to it she was. She was mature enough at this point in her life to admit to her shortcomings. No one could claim to be unaffected by the dark draw that the promise of power seemed to emit. And while Hermione might be less inclined to fall prey to its allure than some others – Voldemort, Dumbledore, Grindewald – she would not, _could_ not, claim to be a saint either. She would have to watch herself. Within a week she had been exposed to a very high concentration of power: with her pink ivory wand, Fawkes' magic melding with her own, Dumbledore's sudden renewed presence and now Tom Riddle's incredible magic. It was a lot to take in at one time, and she would have to be extra careful not to get carried away.

But it wouldn't hurt to get one more brush with his magical aura, would it? Surely not. Just once more, and then she would cut herself off.

Right.

* * *

oooo

"She. Said. _What?"_

Edmond cringed, trying not to cower in fear. He knew how Tom hated displays of weakness from his followers, and that applied to while in his presence, as well. He often said that he was well aware that they were all afraid of him (as they should be), but anyone who wanted to be in his circle better get used to feigning bravery, because he'd be damned if any of his friends were weak, spineless fools.

Edmond swallowed. "Primrose said that she'd heard from Felicity Carmichael who heard from Virginia Abbot who heard from Temple Bones who heard from Misty McGill who heard from Iris Fawley that you might be…gay."

Rosier snarled from the corner. "That we _all_ might be gay, Lestrange," he said, his scowl ferocious. "For each other. Bloody ridiculous. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

Tom fumed. "And Fawley was the start of this _absurd_ rumor?" he said, his voice tight and seething with anger. Edmond did his best to not look away from those compelling dark eyes. Contrary to what many people thought, Tom's eyes were not black. They were a very, very, very dark bluish-greenish-grey – like the color of the sea during an evening storm. Sometimes when they caught the light they would glimmer with color. But most of the time they just looked black.

And sometimes, when his Lord was really angry, Edmond would swear that he saw a flash of red among those flinty depths.

"We're not sure whether it was Fawley or one of her roommates or all of them together," Mulciber said, perching casually on the edge of the chair in Tom's Head Boy suite. He looked relaxed, unfazed, indifferent; as he usually did. But Edmond knew him well enough to see the tightness of his jaw and the flash of anger in his olive green eyes.

Tom sat down stiffly on his couch, looking around at his followers. "Why do I get the feeling that Fawley isn't the mastermind of that little group?"

Dolohov snorted, using a small knife to clean underneath his fingernails. Edmond thought it made him look especially menacing. "Probably because she's not," the Brit of Russian descent said. "Fawley might be a manipulative little cunt, but she's not smart."

Thoros shook his head. "Give her some more credit," he said, looking oddly uneasy. "She's smarter than she looks. However, I agree that Fawley isn't the brains behind the monster that is the Gryffindor's girls dorm."

Rosier still sat over in the far corner, looking like he wanted to strangle a small creature. Avery sat next to him against the wall, eating an apple and looking like he had not a care in the world. Nothing ever seemed to bother Conan, though. He was as unshakable as the moon and as slippery as a fish. He did not seem in the least bit fazed by the implication that he might be attracted to men.

Not that there was anything wrong with that. Edmond couldn't care less if someone was gay or straight or somewhere in between. That hardly mattered. It wasn't something people talked about. It was personal.

But Edmond still did not appreciate the slight against his masculinity, nor did any of his colleagues, it seemed.

"McGill, Limpley and Sapworthy are little gossiping nightmares," Thoros said. "Perhaps it was them."

"No," Rosier said curtly. "It started in the seventh year dorm."

"Granger," Tom said.

Edmond froze. For some reason, the Granger girl made him uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what it was, but he couldn't help but feel threatened by her. Intrigued at the same time. She was…different…than most girls. That was apparent.

Rosier snorted. "The new girl?"

Dolohov looked over at Tom with a cool gleam in his black eyes. "I heard that you were seen escorting her to class earlier today," he said, his mouth quirking up at the corners. "My Lord," he added as an afterthought.

Tom's eyes flashed. Edmond wondered if he knew the extent to which Dolohov envied him. Probably. There wasn't much Tom didn't know.

"She was lost," Tom said, shifting in his seat. "However…I learned a bit about her during our walk in the halls together." He looked over at Mulciber. "Tell me Ambrose, how do _you_ feel about Hermione Granger?"

Edmond watched, both entranced and horrified, as his friend became faint and began to sweat profusely. His hands clenched and unclenched, and his eyes looked terrified. The muscles in his jaw spasmed as if he was in pain. His eyelids blinked away moisture.

"My…My Lord?" Mulciber said shakily.

Tom snarled in an uncharacteristic display of emotion and looked around at his followers. "Like I said, I spoke with Miss Granger in the halls this afternoon. I got an idea of how she managed to turn one of my most talented and most consistent friends into a sniveling wimp at the mere sound of her name."

"I was wondering what that was all about last night," Thoros said, leaning forward in his seat. He grinned. "Did that pretty little slip of a girl get the jump on you, Lestrange?" he said to Edmond.

Edmond scoffed. "I've never interacted with the girl," he said.

"You were _Obliviated,_ Edmond," Tom said, his jaw ticking. "She used the _Cruciatus_ on Mulciber and then _Obliviated_ both of you."

Edmond paled. "But My Lord…how can that be?" He swallowed. "She's a woman." How could a witch have disarmed him and taken his memories so easily?

"I have a feeling that she is a little more than that," Tom murmured, steepling his fingers and resting his elbows on his knees. Tom looked around the room. Edmond and his classmates looked back, waiting for direction. What to do about the girl that had more skill with a wand than any witch should have? What to do about the girl that could cast the _Cruciatus_ curse on a fellow student? What to do about the girl that turned her nose up at age-old school rivalries, crossing house boundaries where few, if any, had gone before? What to do about the girl that challenged _Tom Riddle_ in class, called him by name, and got away with it?

What indeed.

"I want you to watch her," Tom said, slowly. "In classes, at mealtimes, walking in the halls with her little Gryffindor friends. Bribe other students if you need to, and _Obliviate_ them afterwards. I want to know what she talks about, who she talks with, how she takes her tea, what bloody perfume she wears." Tom stood, tucking his hands in his pockets. "And the first person who can tell me exactly what her relationships with Dumbledore and his fucking _phoenix_ are will be rewarded handsomely."

Edmond took note of the gleam of interest in Rosier's blue eyes. Gavin had an unfortunate habit of wanting things he couldn't have. While he was handsome enough to charm many a girl into his bed, he _hated_ it when he was rejected – notably by girls from other houses that were above tumbling into bed with a Slytherin jerk like Gavin Rosier. As such he had a nasty penchant for using the _Imperius_ curse on the handful of girls that didn't take kindly to his advances.

Edmond found the act despicable. Gavin liked to say that he was simply "helping those girls in the right direction." Edmond called it rape.

"However."

The boys all froze. Edmond's dark eyes snapped to his leader, pulled from his thoughts of his amoral classmate. Tom looked pensive. "None of you are to engage with her, besides when you might find yourself working together in a class. And she _cannot_ know that you are following her. Is that understood?"

Rosier frowned. "Exactly what do you think will happen if she does, My Lord?" One golden eyebrow was raised in the sort of skepticism that would likely get Rosier killed one day. Edmond knew that it was not a good idea to underestimate someone, even if said someone _was_ a witch. He'd already made that mistake once, it seemed, and now Mulciber was a sweaty mess because of it. He would be far more careful in the future. He'd leave the foolishness to Rosier.

Tom smiled, seemingly to himself more than to them, and Edmond was surprised to find that it was bordering on… _fond._ Odd.

"Well, I'll leave that up to your imagination, Rosier," he said silkily, walking towards the stairs that led up to his bedroom, a clear dismissal. "But I wouldn't be surprised if you found yourself, I don't know…turned inside out, or something of the like."

"Turned inside out?" Conan said, speaking for the first time all night. His voice was soft and hoarse.

Tom's smile was slow and wicked and entirely too genuine for Edmond's taste. "Yes, Avery. _Quite l_ _iterally."_

Edmond could not help the nervousness that bubbled in his gut as he walked through the portrait hole and out into the hallway. He just had a bad feeling.

A very, _very_ bad feeling.

And it had nothing at all to do with the rumor going around that he was gay.

Not, of course, that there was anything wrong with that.

oooo

* * *

 **Fifty points to the house of whoever spotted the Seinfeld reference. (Come on, all my fellow Ravenclaws!)**

 **I know this is a short chapter, and not a whole lot happens in it, but the next couple of chapters will be pretty eventful. Thanks to all those who are still hanging in there!**

 **Giraffe :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**I had someone ask to kind of clear up what the dates are, so this chapter starts on the morning of Friday, September 29** **th** **, 1944 – Hermione and Draco have been here for a week and a half now. So there you go.**

 **Um. So.**

 **I have taken almost every online Harry Potter sorting test there has ever been, and I have always –** _ **ALWAYS –**_ **come out as a Ravenclaw. And yet I just made my Pottermore account, and now apparently I am a Slytherin. Um…** _ **WHAT?**_ **Wait! My identity has hinged on being a Ravenclaw for like four years now! I've taken so many tests!**

 **The foundation of my very character has been irreparably shaken. I fear things shall never be the same. Oh, woe, I'm going to lose all of my Ravenclaw friends. I'll be shunned as an outsider. Not only that, but I'm Muggleborn, y'all. I'll be crucified in Slytherin.**

 **I just don't know what to do…**

* * *

oooo

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. – Edgar Allan Poe

There is no refuge from memory and remorse in this world. The spirits of our foolish deeds haunt us, with or without repentance. –Gilbert Parker

* * *

oooo

 _She wakes up in the dark._

 _It is cold down here, in this place – wherever this place is – and she pulls her nightgown and robe more tightly around her, shifting on the hard stone floor and blinking rapidly until her eyes adjust to the darkness. She is on her back, still in her nightclothes, which are nearly soaked through with moisture. She tries to sit up, and it takes several attempts before she is successful. Turning her head this way and that to work out the kinks that have formed from sleeping on a cold, stone floor, she squints and pushes her loose, sticky hair from her face._

 _And then she remembers._

 _Her heart begins to beat rapidly within her chest as images flash before her eyes. She can feel the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse, and she shudders as pain flashes across her nerves, rendering her boneless._

 _She had been captured. Yesterday, her birthday. She had been grabbed from her bed in Shell Cottage, dragged through sidelong apparition until she had landed on a forest floor next to Ron, Seamus, Ginny and Fleur. Bill had not been there. Neither had Colin. Killed? Escaped? Hermione's brain struggles to catch up. How had they found Shell Cottage?_

Hermione bolted upright in bed, a sob tearing from her throat. She was instantly wide-awake, looking at the bright, terrified eyes of her four roommates. As she caught her breath, she realized that her wand was pressed into Kat's jugular, and she jerked away, remembering with sudden clarity where she was and whom she was with.

"Hermione?" Sabrina asked, approaching her warily, her pale blue eyes full of concern. Iris chewed on her lip, wrapping her hair around her fingers anxiously. Zuri was staring at Hermione with sharp black eyes. Kat was rubbing at her throat, looking at Hermione fearfully. "Are you all right?"

Hermione felt her stomach lurch and she shot out of bed, barely making it to the toilet before she threw up. Great heaving sobs wracked her body and she clung to the rim of the toilet, trying desperately to ground herself. Her head spun and she leaned forward and vomited again.

She heard footsteps behind her.

" _What happened?"_

" _We heard screaming –"_

" _Is she pregnant?"_

" _Maybe we should get Madam Soranus."_

"She had a nightmare, you idiots," a voice snapped, and Hermione came back to reality and turned to see Zuri standing there with her arms crossed, glaring at Misty McGill, Lorraine Limpley and Suzanne Sapworthy as they crowded into the seventh years' bathroom. "She's not pregnant. Merlin, look at her, she probably weighs 115 pounds soaking wet. She probably couldn't even _get_ pregnant if she tried. Now all of you, get out. This isn't your dorm, and it's not any of your business."

Hermione wiped her mouth, graciously accepting the glass of water that Sabrina conjured, rinsing her mouth out and gulping down the rest. Kat hung back, looking apprehensive.

"Oh Kat, I'm so sorry," Hermione choked out, closing her eyes in shame and swiping at the tears on her cheeks. "Please, forgive me. I didn't know what I was doing."

Kat scuffed her slipper on the floor and then smiled gently. "It's all right, Hermione. You just scared me, is all."

"You scared all of us," Iris said from over near the sinks, wrapping her arms around her body to fight the chill. "What happened, Hermione? You've never had nightmares before."

Hermione coughed. She decided not to mention that she had nightmares every night, they just didn't usually manifest themselves so obviously. "I'm sorry, I guess I just had a bad memory resurface." She swallowed another sip of water, trying to rid her tongue of the foul taste of bile. Looking around at her classmates, noticing that McGill still hung by the doorway, looking like a greedy, gossiping, red-haired vulture, she felt decidedly uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to wake anyone up. I apologize."

Iris sighed, looking equal parts grumpy and sympathetic. "Well it's six-thirty, so we might as well get up anyways. No worries, Hermione. All of us have bad dreams sometimes."

The girls trickled out, leaving Kat and Hermione alone in the bathroom. Kat crouched down next to her, and Hermione felt tears jump into her eyes when the other girl pushed Hermione's mass of hair off of her sweaty face. Her hazel eyes were kind.

"I think maybe that was more than just a bad dream, wasn't it, Hermione?" she asked gently, helping Hermione to her feet. Hermione simply nodded, her eyes closed, unable to keep the tears from coming.

Oh, Ron. Her Ron.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"

"Okay," she replied. Her voice was thick with tears. She sniffed. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" she asked, putting her hand against Kat's neck. She gasped as she brushed Kat's sleep-mussed hair from her throat. A small round burn in the shape of the tip of Hermione's crooked wand glared from the fair skin over Kat's jugular. "Oh my God, Kat!"

Kat smiled sheepishly. "I've had worse. Used to play chaser on the quidditch team, you know? Then I busted my hip in fifth year and I haven't been able to fly since, magic or no magic." She pulled Hermione's clammy hand from her neck and gave it a squeeze. "I've had quite a few nasty bludgers thrown my way – and even more nasty Slytherins to deal with. Trust me." She winked. "I've had much worse than a dinky little burn like this."

"Doesn't make me feel any better," Hermione grumbled, guilt swamping through her. She needed to go for a run or something. Anything to get this energy out of her system.

"You know what _will_ make you feel better?" Kat asked cheekily. "A bath. You smell, Granger. Go on. No time like the present."

* * *

oooo

Conan Avery was a man of opportunity. He was naturally quiet, good at taking advantage of other people's emotional states. He was what a muggle scientist might call a borderline sociopath – he didn't have much in the way of feelings, and he didn't like people much. He did, however, respect Tom Riddle; and if Tom Riddle wanted the Granger girl spied on, Avery would do it. Tom had already enlisted the help of Avery's great-uncle, who had a seat on the International Confederation of Wizards, and Mulciber's father, who was on the Wizengamot, and Edmond's mother, who was the queen of the gossip network in Wizarding Britain and parts of France, to look into both Granger's and Mallery's pasts. And when Lord Voldemort gave an order, you followed it. Somehow, even the adults knew this; Conan would admit that it didn't sit right with him that his own father and great-uncle were so susceptible to Riddle's charms. Was there no limit to what the boy could do?

And so Avery found himself watching her, quite by accident, as she collapsed at the far edge of the lake as the sun rose fully over the mountains. He was out for an early morning walk down by the edge of the forest. Birds heralded the morning, and Conan watched, silent as a stone, as the girl in muggle sneakers and very soft looking pants breathed heavily and looked up at the sky. Her curls were damp, as if she'd only recently bathed, and thrown back into a messy ponytail. It was only when she'd taken off her shoes and socks and buried her toes in the sand that she spoke.

"I can feel your eyes on the back of my neck, and I must say, it's getting rather old," she said, her voice loud and clear. "So why don't you come out here and sit down with me and we can enjoy the peaceful and quiet morning together?"

Conan was not easily surprised, but he was not used to being noticed so quickly, especially when he was making a concerted effort to not be seen. Shuffling on his feet, unsure of exactly how he was to go about approaching the girl that Tom had very clearly told them _not_ to approach, he stepped forward into the sun and came to stand next to her.

While Avery was probably as asexual as anyone could be, he could not help but be entranced with her eyes. They were dark and bright and full of what he would only call mischief.

"Good morning, Avery," she said politely, patting the sand next to her. "Tom sent you out here to spy on me again, I presume?"

Conan swallowed. "Actually, I always go for a walk by the forest's edge in the morning. You just happened to be going for your run at the same time. It's chance that our paths have crossed."

"Ah," she replied, nodding. "What a happy coincidence." Her tone implied that it was anything but. She paused, swiping a loose curl from her face and squinting at him. "But I suppose you would appreciate it if I didn't mention this little meeting of ours to him nonetheless."

He could not help but smile at her perceptiveness. For such a noble Gryffindor, she sure had some Slytherin tricks up her sleeve. "That would probably be best, yes." He picked up a rock and tossed it into the lake. "Tell me, Granger, how is it you know so much about Riddle? You couldn't possibly know that he asked me to spy on you, but you guessed. It just so happens that you guessed correctly. How?"

"Call it deductive reasoning, if you will," she drawled, plucking at a weed that grew up out of the sand. She did not pull it up, however. Just tickled the ends of the leaves with her fingers, as if in a teasing warning: _I could yank you out right now, but I'm choosing to be merciful. Next time, though, I might change my mind._

"I caught two of his other cronies trying to spy on me day before last – as you no doubt know by now – and old habits tend to die hard. Riddle seems like the type who has a curious nature. He's like a toddler that tends to investigate shiny new things. And this time I'm the shiny new thing." She looked at him, and while the intensity of her stare should have unnerved him, it only drew him in further. There was something oddly…calming…about her presence. A sort of power that drew him to her. It was very much like what he felt around Tom, but more benign and…older. More experienced. She exuded mystery and grace from every pore. For some reason, he found himself relaxing slightly.

He might compare it to sitting next to a half-tamed lion that he knew had already eaten its fill. Knowing that it wasn't hungry enough to attack, and wanting to touch it, to take the opportunity to run a hand along such a dangerous beast and know that it wouldn't care to kill you for it – at worst just bat your hand away like a pesky fly. You might get nicked by a claw in the process, but it would be worth it just to feel its heaving ribs under your hand, feel its smooth coat and the warmth of its body.

"He just likes to be aware of his surroundings," Conan replied easily. "He doesn't like not knowing things about people. He wants to make sure his classmates and professors are safe."

A smile curved on her lips, and Avery got the feeling she knew that Tom's motives were anything but altruistic. She didn't call him out on the lie, however. "Well, I'm glad to hear that he has the school's interests in mind. However, if it ever does come up in conversation, please do let him in on the fact that a girl just needs her _space,_ you know –"

Her face suddenly went white and her voice died in her throat. She drew her wand, and Conan turned towards the tree line, where her eyes had honed in on a target.

Two men stumbled from the trees, looking entirely confused and like they'd just been put through a meat grinder. Conan stared. One of them was middle aged, with brown hair and watery blue eyes, and the other was huge and blond and perhaps in his early thirties, with hair that hung in golden waves to brush his shoulders and a gaping wound in his abdomen. They both wore black cloaks, and sinister looking masks hung around their necks.

Wisely, Conan stood to the side as the Granger girl scrambled to her feet, holding her wand and staring at the two men that had just spotted her.

"Granger?" the younger of the two said, looking delirious. His bright aquamarine eyes were glazed with pain.

"Hello, Thorfinn," she said smoothly. Her face was impassive and her eyes cold flecks of ochre, but Conan noticed how her hands shook. She turned to the brunette. "Hello, Walden. Fancy seeing the two of you here."

Avery shifted uncomfortably, his own hand clenching around his wand in his trouser pocket, completely unaware of the pair of grey eyes that suddenly snapped open in the hospital wing.

* * *

oooo

Hermione stared at the two Death Eaters, trying to keep the horror from her face.

Thorfinn Rowle and Walden Macnair were here. At Hogwarts. In 1944.

This was impossible.

"Where are we, Granger?" Rowle said, looking delirious. He did not have a wand, she noticed. Macnair lowered his wounded comrade down against a tree and shifted his wand in his hand, glaring at Hermione with hatred.

"Hogwarts," she bit out, responding to Rowle's question but looking at his older colleague, tapping her wand against her thigh, a nervous habit she'd picked up during the war. She took her free hand and slowly brought it up to brush Avery's elbow. The boy was no fool. His face was impassive, as usual, but his body was coiled like a spring. "Conan, would you be a dear and go fetch a professor for me? Quick like."

He swallowed and nodded and went to move away, but Macnair's wand was leveled at his chest before he could take a step. "I don't think the boy's going anywhere, Mudblood. Are you, boy?"

Conan was frozen and completely silent. When Macnair's eyes flashed and he sneered, Hermione saw her chance and used his momentary distraction to blast him away from Conan. As Macnair took the time to halt his momentum and land gracefully on his feet, she shoved the junior Knight of Walpurgis in the back. "Go, Avery, run. Run!"

The sixth year did not need to be told twice, it seemed. Drawing his wand, he booked it away towards the school, stumbling once before gaining his bearings and dashing up the path. Hermione sent a _Protego_ at his back as Macnair recovered quickly and sent a stunning spell at his retreating form.

When Conan disappeared over the hill, Macnair swore and turned back to Hermione. "Damn it Granger, what the hell is going on?! What did you mean by get a professor? Where are we really? Is this some sort of trick?"

"Surely you're smart enough to put two and two together, Macnair," she snarled back, keeping her eyes trained solely on him. Rowle looked like he was about to faint, much less lurch from his place against the tree and try to attack her.

She knew his heart wasn't in it, anyway. Personal experience told her that Thorfinn Rowle wasn't a threat to her any longer.

"I went back in time," she hissed, dodging a stunning spell and blocking a _Diffindo._ "During the battle. And now…" She paused, swallowing. "Obviously, the fabric of space-time has been ripped, and somehow the two of you ended up here as well. Merlin." She threw up a shield again as Macnair tried to disarm her, and she sent a stinging jinx his way that had him yelping, his shoulder swelling immediately. "Would you cut it out?! We have bigger things to be worrying about than a stupid war that won't even begin for another fifty years!" she hissed.

"No amount of time could dull my hate for your kind, Granger," Walden snarled, sending a barrage of hexes that she all dodged or blocked. "But half a century – how did you manage that?"

"It wasn't on purpose, you fool," Hermione said, Fawkes' heat stirring to life within her chest as Macnair hit her with a slicing hex that skimmed the side of her neck. Another two inches to the right, and she would be dead. So he was aiming to kill, was he? Fine. She muttered a quiet _Cerebrumiax_ that had him diving out of the way, landing hard on his hip with a curse. He recognized the purple spell instantly. It had killed a number of his friends.

He sent a stream of bright blue fire at her, and she identified it as the same spell that had caused the miserable burn on her back. She howled as it caught the back of her wand hand, and she seethed with anger and hate, shouting out two _Avada Kedavras_ in quick succession, making him roll to the ground to avoid certain death.

" _Bombarda!"_

Hermione threw up a hasty shield and then yelped in surprise as the blue dome fizzled and cracked and rebounded, blasting her wand from her hand and throwing her to the ground. She grunted as she felt two of her fingers snap, and watched in horror as her wand not only skittered away from her, but also cracked right down the middle, shattering with the strain of holding off the force of the blast. She froze. Her pink ivory wand was in her bag, which was sitting, warded, in her trunk. Which was in her room.

Erm.

Macnair smiled. "I'm going to kill you now, Granger. You've been the biggest thorn in the Dark Lord's side for years, besides the stupid Potter boy. Undesirable Number Two. I'll be handsomely rewarded." He raised his wand.

"Don't you get it, Macnair?" she yelled, lashing out at him with wandless magic that he quickly deflected. "There is no Dark Lord here. You're trapped in a time where you don't belong. You won't be getting a reward!"

"Stupid Mudblood," he sneered, once again raising his wand. "There's always a dark lord to follow. Don't care who it is, as long as I get to eliminate scum like you."

Hermione's heart skittered. She thought about how she was about to leave Draco all alone, caught in 1944 with information of the future that could send the world into chaos. She could only pray that Dumbledore would protect him as best he could.

" _Avada Ke –"_

Hermione watched in shock as a pair of pale arms wrapped around Macnair from behind and snapped his neck with a brutal twist. The Death Eater fell to the ground, his eyes glazed over in death, his neck bent at an unnatural angle.

Draco stood over the older man's body, staring at Hermione, his bare chest heaving. "For Padma and Dennis," he panted, his voice hoarse. He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, looking pale and drawn, sweating the cold, clammy sweat of the sick. Still, despite this, he looked painfully beautiful.

"D…Draco?" she stuttered, scrambling to her knees and then to her feet. "Draco?"

"Hey, Granger," he said tiredly, and then grunted as she threw herself into his arms, holding him close, crying tears of relief into his neck. He wrapped himself around her, but she could feel how unsteady he was, and she helped lower him to the ground, his white drawstring hospital pants now covered in sand. "Hi."

"Draco, how did you find me? How did you know I was here?" she said tearfully, wiping sweat from his brow and looking into his eyes. His pupils were dilated, and he blinked, his hands tightening and loosening around her elbows, and he was _alive,_ he was _awake,_ and the _relief_ she felt just consumed everything –

"I woke up in the hospital wing, and I just knew…I just knew that something wasn't right. Then I looked out the window and saw that boy running towards the school, and I had to get to you, Hermione. I had to."

"I just…I can't believe you're awake. I can't believe you're _walking."_ She brushed soft hair from his face. "Draco, you need to be resting."

"If I had been resting, you would be dead, Granger," he said cheekily, his eyes flashing with a familiar mischief that made her eyes water with fresh tears. "I've been watching your back for what feels like forever. I wasn't going to fail this time. Can't believe you let Macnair get the drop on you." He looked around, taking in his surroundings. "Oh, by the way, did you realize that we're at Hogwarts, Hermione? And I swear I passed Dumbledore on my mad flight down the first floor corridor. Anything you want to tell me, Granger?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I've got to fill you in." She heard voices, and she looked up to see a troop of people running towards them, Professor Dumbledore among them. "But for now all you need to know is that your name is Draco Mallery, we've been living in China for most of our lives…and we're trapped in 1944, Draco. Merlin." Saying it aloud, it seemed especially surreal.

She saw his eyes widen, and then his gaze snapped over to where Rowle sat against the tree, pale and still and barely breathing. "Rowle," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Care to tell me how my dear cousin and this piece of shit," he continued, kicking at Macnair's body, "ended up here as well?"

Rowle coughed, and Draco glared at him and plucked Macnair's wand from his dead hand.

"Hello, Malfoy," Rowle said tiredly. He looked over at Hermione. "You should let Granger do it."

"Do what?" Hermione asked softly, though as she said it she knew of what he spoke. Blood was pooling around him, sinking into the sandy soil around the tree.

"Kill me, Granger. Don't be a dunce. If anyone in this world never deserved the title of 'stupid,' it's you." He coughed again, spitting blood onto the fabric of his trousers. "If someone's going to do it, I want it to be you. Just…make it quick, all right?"

Hermione swallowed, and pried the wand from Draco's grip with just a little resistance. "He doesn't deserve a quick death, Hermione," her best friend snarled, his hands shaking with anger and exhaustion. "I saw him kill Blaise with my own eyes."

"Draco," she said, stilling his shaking hands and standing, ignoring the pain in her right hand as she clamped it around Macnair's wand. It felt wrong in her hand – too thin, too lightweight, too gnarled – but it would do. "He did me a favor, once. A big favor."

"Don't pretend like you still owe me anything, Granger," Rowle coughed, grimacing. "You repaid that favor. I'm simply appealing to the decency in your heart. I know my cousin wouldn't grant me the same boon."

Hermione swallowed. "Thorfinn –"

"Do it, Granger!" the hulking blond man snarled, his handsome face contorted in pain and misery. "Just do it! Now!"

Hermione closed her eyes and pointed the wand. _"Avada Kedavra."_

Macnair's wand, used to such magic, was eager to do her bidding. Panting, she forced herself to look at the body, taking in the way those pretty teal eyes were now devoid of life. She dropped the wand, her hands suddenly shaky.

It was different; killing someone who she thought didn't quite deserve it as much as they normally did. It felt wrong. Shivering, she looked away.

Conan Avery stood on the path, looking at Rowle's body with cold, sky blue eyes. His nose twitched, but otherwise he looked unfazed. Hermione wondered if he had ever seen anyone die before. If not, the first sight of a thestral would no doubt send him for a loop. Dumbledore quickly stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the grizzly sight. Madam Soranus stood behind him, wringing her hands and looking lost, and Slughorn placed a hand on Avery's shoulder and turned him away, looking at Dumbledore for permission to take the boy back to the castle. Dumbledore waved them off absently, and Hermione caught Conan's eyes one last time before he was escorted away. She thought she saw a glimmer of respect in those pale blue irises before they were turned from her gaze.

"What happened here?"

She'd never heard Dumbledore's voice so hard. He did not look angry with her, per say, but disturbed at the image before him.

If ever he had thought her to be an innocent schoolgirl, that image was completely dispelled from his mind, now. Hermione had tried to get him to understand that the world in 2002 wasn't as it was now, and that she was not what any girl in this era was expected to be, but seeing someone's memories and seeing something in reality were two very different things. Besides, she was unable to show him all of her memories, only bits and pieces, so there was no way that he could really know just how bad things had gotten and the seriousness of the measures she and others had taken to try to stay alive.

"These two men are – were – people we knew from…back home," she said quietly, aware that Madam Soranus was still standing there, looking down at Macnair's twisted body like she'd never seen a dead person before. Perhaps she hadn't. "They attacked Mister Avery and me while we sat and talked this morning. I was able to buy Conan enough time to get away and run back up to the castle for help. Draco woke up and saw him through the window and just – well –"

"I had a feeling, sir," Draco said, each second looking more and more like he needed to be in a bed. "Hermione and I have been looking out for each other for a long time. I saw that boy running from the lake and I just had a feeling. If I hadn't gotten here in time, she would have been killed."

"And the man that you just struck down in cold blood, Miss Granger?" Madam Soranus said shrilly, looking at the girl in horror. "What about him?"

"Alfidia –" Dumbledore began, raising his hand. Hermione interrupted him.

"He was gravely wounded, Madam," she said softly, looking over to where Thorfinn's body still sat slumped against the tree. He looked oddly peaceful; like a living statue of a Roman god, something you might find in an ancient city in Europe. For some reason, it comforted her. She imagined that if Achilles had looked like anyone, it would have been Thorfinn Rowle; and she imagined that Rowle would have been pleased at the comparison. "He – he asked me to ease his passing." She swallowed. "He wasn't a good man, Madam Soranus. But I'm sorry that you had to see me cast the killing curse like that. It's not what I wanted." She looked back to the mediwitch, pulling her eyes away from Rowle's still-warm corpse. "But he also didn't deserve a slow death. He was hurt badly, ma'am. You can see that from his wounds. With the amount of blood he'd lost, he never would have made it to the hospital wing."

Hermione stood, and helped pull Draco to his feet. "I can dispose of the bodies, if you wish." Her eyes fluttered closed and then back open. "I've done it before. I don't mind. First I need to get Draco back to the hospital wing, though. He's not well."

Madam Soranus sniffed. "I'm surprised you made it down here so quickly in the first place, Mister Mallery," she said stiffly, looking at them with slightly softer eyes. "It's a wonder you didn't collapse as soon as you set foot out of your bed."

"What can I say, Madam?" Draco replied deliriously, joking even in the face of exhaustion. "I can't stand missing out on the action. I get bored if I sleep for too long." His eyes slipped closed.

Hermione leaned in close to his ear. "Remember what I told you, Draco," she whispered. "Just…don't say anything if anyone asks you questions, all right? Trust Dumbledore if you have to, but no one else. I'll be up to see you shortly."

He barely had time to nod before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Madam Soranus levitated him away, shaking her head sadly, and then Hermione was alone with her professor, feeling more awkward than ever.

"I'm sorry," she said, sighing. She made herself meet his eyes. "Even if I could have saved him, I couldn't risk him telling the world our secret. He knew this." Dumbledore nodded his head and sighed, his eyes tired but accepting. She kicked Macnair in the boot. "Meet Walden Macnair," she said sourly, and then went over to Rowle's body and shut his eyes gently. "And Thorfinn Rowle."

"Both prominent English pureblood names," Dumbledore said, watching her carefully as she brushed a piece of loose bronze hair from Rowle's forehead. "Both families with children in this school right this very moment." He paused. "And though you say that this Rowle character was a very bad man, you seem to hold some level of regard for him."

Hermione did not answer for a moment, a memory of her time at Malfoy Manor resurfacing. A gentle hand on her shoulder, a muttered _"Don't mention it,"_ and the clang of a cell door closing. She looked up at Dumbledore from her position at Rowle's side and gave him a tight smile. "He saved me from an undesirable fate once. And perhaps really truly introduced me to what it means to live within a shade of grey." She stood. "I used to always believe that everyone had a choice. Always. It took me a while to realize that some people are sometimes born trapped into a corner with no way out. Everything was different after I came to understand that. Sometimes the choices that you _do_ have are impossible. Thorfinn Rowle was, indeed, a bad man. But not all bad. Sometimes the world is not so black and white."

"Indeed, Miss Granger," he replied softly, looking at her with eyes as bright as the sky. "Indeed."

* * *

oooo

Dumbledore insisted on dealing with the bodies himself, and as Hermione didn't really want to hold Macnair's wand again if she didn't have to, she watched on gratefully as he incinerated the two dead men, amused when Dumbledore's nose wrinkled at the smell. She breathed it in.

At the end of the day, the scent of death was still the most familiar thing in this unfamiliar place. Besides Draco, now that he was awake.

Oh, and another thing: how was she supposed to tell her best friend that he was dying?

"How did they end up here, Professor?" Hermione said, feeling dreadfully uncertain about her fate and the fate of the world as a whole. "There must have been a drastic rip in space-time. I noticed that Macnair had a fresh cut underneath his left eye." She paused. "I gave it to him right after he gave me that nasty burn on my back; just minutes before Fawkes transported Draco and me back here. Which means that though it's been days since I've arrived in 1944, it translated into hours, or just minutes, in 2002. Which means that time is still running in the future. I'm having trouble making sense of this."

"I believe, Hermione, that it might be more complicated than just the future and the past," Albus replied, pocketing his wand and turning away from the ashes of the two Death Eaters' bodies. "You mentioned _space-time._ Space, Miss Granger. I think, perhaps, that we may be dealing with something more along the lines of several timelines that run parallel to each other. I think Fawkes pulled you from one and into another, and I think it unbalanced something in the process, and I fear that those two men wandered through a black hole of sorts." He paused and looked at her. "We can discuss these things later, however. There is a more immediate concern that I have, at the moment. Now, Mister Avery was here when these men first showed up?" Albus asked as they walked back up the path towards the castle. "Did he hear anything that mightn't make sense to him that he could repeat that would potentially get you in trouble?"

"No, I don't think so," she said uneasily, playing through the confrontation in her mind. "I called Macnair and Rowle by their first names for precisely that reason." She froze, her eyes widening in sudden panic as she came to a realization. "But Macnair called me a Mudblood in front of him. Albus, I _have_ to get to him before he tells anyone else –"

Dumbledore laid a hand on her shoulder. "He can't have gotten far. He should still be with Horace. I'll send a patronus and have him escort Mister Avery to my office." He waved his wand and a spectral white phoenix shot from the tip, swooping through the air and flying towards the castle gracefully.

Hermione could only hope that it reached him in time. To have Tom Riddle – or anyone, really – know of her blood status this early in the game could be disastrous.

Luckily it was still early enough that not everyone was up, and most that were awake were at breakfast, but there were still a few people that lined the halls as the strange pair made their way to Dumbledore's office. Hermione avoided the stares of the students and teachers that had heard the commotion and come to look. She clapped a hand to her neck, trying in vain to cover up the cut that Macnair had made there; but blood had already trickled down to soak through the collar of her regrettably white half-zip long-sleeved rash guard. Unfortunately witches didn't really exercise in the 1940s, and when they did it was only for quidditch - which was only newly opened up to women within the last couple of decades (sometimes Hermione wondered how England could be so behind the times - MCUSA had had a woman president in the 1920s!). So she'd had no idea what to wear to go for a run. She'd ended up just putting on some of her least-out-of-place muggle clothes, which included the shirt, a pair of black sweatpants, and sneakers. The girls in her dorm had looked at her a little oddly when she'd left after her bath that morning, and people were looking at her oddly now, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. They seemed to be whispering more about the fact that she had been at the middle of an attack more than about her choice of wardrobe. Magnus Macdonald stepped towards her, seemingly about to ask after her health, but she looked away from him and kept moving forward, avoiding interaction.

Much to Hermione's relief, when they reached the Transfiguration office Slughorn and Avery were already there. Unfortunately, so was Headmaster Dippet.

"Albus, you should have called for me immediately!" the headmaster said, looking flustered. Dumbledore did not seem in the least bit concerned; but then again, Armando Dippet was not a very imposing man – indeed, Hermione thought she might not even see him in a crowded room.

"I'm sorry, Armando, but there was no time, I'm afraid," Dumbledore said wearily. "Come, I will walk you to breakfast and fill you in," he continued, putting a guiding hand on Dippet's elbow and steering him out of his office before the old headmaster could bombard Hermione with questions. Albus winked at Hermione, and they were gone before the ancient wizard could utter a word of protest.

Alone in the Transfiguration office with Slughorn and Avery, she looked to her Potions professor.

"Professor, might I have a word alone with Mister Avery?" she asked gently, giving him her most charming smile. "I'd just like to speak with him about what happened this morning. Try to put his mind at ease, you understand."

Slughorn's gooseberry eyes softened. "Of course, my dear. I suppose that is a good idea. I'll just wait right outside, shall I?"

"Certainly, Professor, although I'm sure this won't take long…are you sure you wouldn't want to head on down to breakfast?" she asked sweetly. "You must be starving. I know I am."

Though Horace Slughorn was clever and generally smarter than people gave him credit for – Hermione knew this, for she had known him rather well, in her time – he also had a blind spot when it came to his favorite students. He would never think himself able to be tricked or manipulated by anyone he saw as a child. Hermione hated herself a little for it, but she took a page out of Tom Riddle's book and used this, playing her professor like a fiddle.

"Oh, well, I am feeling rather peckish, now that you mention it," he said, rubbing his large stomach. "Just make sure you two make it down to the Great Hall in time to get a bite to eat before the elves clear it all away. And of course, if you need anything at all, just send word and I'll be here right away."

"Of course, Professor," she said with a bright smile. "Thank you for looking after us so well. It's good to have an adult around that we can trust to keep us safe."

Slughorn chortled and blushed, patting her on the shoulder. "Yes. Well." He cleared his throat. "Do make sure to get your neck and hand seen to, Miss Granger."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, looking down at her wand hand. "Yes, I'd almost forgotten. Thank you, sir."

He beamed at her. "Such a tough young thing. All right, children, I'll see you after a while."

As soon as the door closed, Hermione whirled around and reached out with her left hand and, with some effort, managed to snap her fingers and disarm Avery right as he was pulling his wand on her. She winced. Her left hand was not accustomed to doing magic, and it took a lot of energy to channel it wandlessly.

His eyes narrowed. "Give me back my wand," he said. His eyes were still unnervingly flat, but he was showing as much emotion as she was likely to ever see from him.

She locked the door using his wand: black walnut and unicorn hair, if she was not mistaken. "I think, Mister Avery, I would rather have this discussion on equal footing," she said quietly. She twirled the thin twig between her fingers and then tucked it behind her into the waistband of her trousers. "Regrettably, my wand was broken in the struggle a few minutes ago; therefore, I would feel more comfortable if you did not have one either." She held her hands up. "Don't worry, I don't plan on hurting you. You're far too smart to piss me off, Conan, especially since you know _exactly_ what I did to your friend Mulciber."

She saw him swallow, but his face did not change. He did, however cross his arms and sit down in an armchair. Hermione followed suit.

"So now what?" he asked, looking completely unreadable. If Hermione wasn't mistaken, this kid was better at schooling his feelings than even Riddle was. Perhaps she was just more attuned to Tom Riddle. She'd known him in a previous life. She knew absolutely nothing about Conan Avery – if she remembered correctly, he'd died before she was even born, and his son, Avery Junior, had died in the First Battle of Hogwarts, killed by Arthur Weasley.

"Now you tell me exactly what it will take for me to ensure that you never tell another soul of my blood status." She paused, searching his face for any sign of movement. His eye twitched, but she did not know how to interpret it. "I know you heard what he called me."

"Mudblood." It was said without malice, or even contempt – only a sort of cold boredom. "Yes, I heard."

Her lips quirked up. "And tell me, Mister Avery: what do I have to threaten you with to ensure that you don't tell my secret? These are dangerous times for a poor little Mudblood orphan like me."

His lip twitched, as if he was surprised that she would use such an ugly slur to describe herself. He cleared his throat and looked away. "I believe, Granger, that you are, perhaps, anything but a _poor little Mudblood orphan._ Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm going to hazard a guess and say that there aren't many witches or wizards in this school that pose much of a threat to you."

She smiled coolly, too logical of mind to be flattered by the truth. "Only a handful. Though underestimating anyone is always a bad idea, in my experience; you never know who might surprise you. There is only one person in this school, however, that worries me. Can you guess who that might be?"

"Riddle," he grunted, his eyes boring into hers. "You're afraid of Riddle."

Hermione smiled, amused. "He _worries_ me," she corrected. "I'm not _afraid_ of your little boss, Avery, no matter how whipped he has the lot of you." Normally she would have taken perverse pleasure in the color that might rise to a man's cheeks at such a comment; however, Conan Avery just stared at her blankly, his face as pale as ever. He was completely unaffected. "I'm not afraid of much of anything anymore. I don't have much to lose at this point, you understand."

"Tom will always find something to hold over your head," he said, his eyes flashing with something that she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"And that's how he got you to join his little group, isn't it?" she asked softly, suddenly understanding his motives for joining Tom, though she didn't know the specifics. "You don't actually give a fig about blood prejudice, do you, Conan?"

He stared into her face. "A little. It's hard to escape its pull, when you grow up having it drilled into your head." He looked away. "But no, not really. That's never really interested me."

"What does interest you?"

He flexed his hands. "What's the point of this conversation, Granger?"

"I'm merely trying to get a better sense of what makes you tick, Avery," she replied, steepling her fingers. "And, once again, I need to ensure that you don't go about blabbing my secret to everyone. I might just have to _Obliviate_ it from your memory. I understand that Riddle has a penchant for reading minds."

His eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

"I know a lot of things," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "The question is, how good are your Occlumency skills?"

"Better than Riddle's Legilimency skills, at least so far," he answered, and she was surprised at the honestly in his voice. "He's good. I'm better."

She knew it was rude, but she had to be absolutely sure. _"Legilimens,"_ she said, twitching the middle finger of her wand hand as best she could while it was broken. She ignored the pain.

She grunted in discomfort as her mind came up against the equivalent of a smooth metal wall. Try as she might, she could not get past it. Exhaling, she withdrew her attack.

"That was unkind," Avery said stiffly.

She grinned. "Sorry. Still, you have very good defenses. However, does he not become suspicious when you don't let him into your brain?"

"I do let him into my brain," he replied, cracking his knuckles. "I just don't let him see everything."

She hummed. "You're that good?"

"Yes," he answered. "Riddle is a scary good Legilimens. But he's only been at it for a couple of years now. My mother started teaching me Occlumency before I even got my wand at Diagon Alley. By the time I entered Hogwarts I was already well on my way to becoming a good Occlumens. By my fourth year, I was a master at it."

She leaned forward in her chair, staring at this odd child. How extraordinary! How useful!

"That's very impressive, Avery," she said, watching him with interest. "I've always struggled with Occlumency, myself. Legilimency, not so much."

"I can see that," he said dryly, his eyebrow quirking up.

"Perhaps you'd like to learn?" Hermione asked. It was a proficient carrot, she thought, to offer him something that Riddle would undoubtedly avoid teaching his followers. He wouldn't want anyone attempting to rifle through his head the same way he liked to rifle through theirs.

"Are you… _bribing_ me, Granger?" he asked, leaning forward and mirroring her pose.

She shrugged. "Would it be exchange enough to keep you from telling Riddle that I'm muggleborn? I'd prefer to not have to _Obliviate_ you. Besides, trying to take that one tiny piece of the memory of the attack this morning and not accidentally alter the rest of it would be difficult. He would sense that something was off. And I don't want to use your wand to perform such delicate magic, either. I find that some wands tend to have a hard time being used against their owners. I would rather not tempt fate."

Conan stood, and she followed suit, cocking her head to the side.

"Deal," he said, sticking his hand out.

"On your magic?" she hazarded, unwilling to take anything less than a Wizarding Oath when it came to keeping secrets with a Slytherin. Especially one who spent so much time around the young Lord Voldemort.

"On my magic," he said, his voice blank but for a small tinge of reluctance.

She shook his hand. "Of course, I promise to uphold my end of the bargain as well. On my magic."

"Don't make me regret this, Granger," he said in warning. "I'll protect your secret from Riddle, but you have to watch my back, too."

"I didn't think people usually needed protecting from their friends," she ventured, knowing full well that Tom Riddle did not have friends, but not knowing how much Avery knew about his own leader.

"Riddle isn't my friend," he said curtly, pulling his hand away. "And he's not yours, either, no matter what he might try to make you believe." When his eyes met hers, she was surprised to find them full of sincerity. Not feeling, mind you; Hermione was beginning to understand that Conan Avery didn't feel a whole hell of a lot. But his eyes were honest. "Don't play his game, Granger. I don't know what his fascination with you is, but don't get sucked into it."

She smiled at him and gave him his wand back. "I appreciate the advice. I'm glad we've come to an understanding. And tell me: have you ever seen anyone die before today?"

Conan cocked his head. "No. This was the first time."

Hermione nodded. "And you are unaffected by it?" she asked. She didn't think it bothered him, but she had to be sure. It had been she who'd laid the killing blow, after all.

"I'm unaffected by most things," he replied, and his voice was flat and devoid of feeling. His eyes mirrored it.

"Good," she said, cradling her wounded hand against her stomach. "That's good. Just don't freak out when you see the thestrals for the first time. Other people will look at you like you're crazy."

His eyebrows drew down. "Thestrals?"

She grinned and patted him on the arm. He didn't seem to know how to react to the display of what might be construed as affection. It tickled her. "Don't worry about it. Go ahead and get down to breakfast – I'm going to run up to the hospital wing to check on my friend and get myself patched up."

He shrugged and opened the door, stepping out into the hallway. "Just so you know – I wouldn't have told Riddle your secret anyway. I mean, without you promising something in return." He shrugged again. "It's not my business. It's not his, either."

She snorted. "I appreciate it, but you're a Slytherin, Avery. If you'd done a favor like that for me for free, I wouldn't have believed it. It's better this way."

She thought she saw what might have been a smile cross his face before he turned and walked away.

* * *

oooo

"So let me get this straight: we've gone back in time to 1944…Voldemort is Head Boy…Fawkes is somehow living inside your body…Dumbledore thinks we're caught up in a parallel universe…you just made a deal with one of Voldemort's inner circle…the fabric of space-time might be irreparably damaged…and Aunt Bella's curse is slowly killing me. Am I leaving anything out?"

"Avery isn't in Riddle's inner circle. He's not as close as Mulciber, Nott and Lestrange."

"Whatever. Fine. Anything else I need to get straight in my mind?"

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. Draco reached out to pull it from between her teeth, as was his habit, and she batted his hand away, as was her habit. "Cut it out," she said absently, her mind caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. "You're being awfully cavalier about this, you know. Dying."

Draco sighed and looked out the big bay window of the hospital wing. He still looked so weak and tired. "It doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would," he said quietly. She reached out to take his hand, and he squeezed it.

"It bothers me," she responded, struggling to blink away tears. She was largely unsuccessful. A few fell onto her cheeks and raced down to her chin. Harry would have wiped them away and murmured niceties. Draco just looked at her and quoted a playwright.

"' _Even at our birth, death does but stand aside a little. And every day he looks towards us and muses somewhat to himself whether that day or the next he will draw nigh.'_ " His eyes were steady and grey, and Hermione hated him for it. She wanted him to cry and scream and throw things. Because that's what she wanted to do.

"Don't quote Robert Bolt to me right now, Draco," she said, swiping at her tears angrily. "I can't lose you. I _can't,_ Draco."

"Of course you can, Granger," he returned evenly, still frustratingly dry-eyed. "You've lost everything and everyone else. One more isn't going to hurt you any more than you're already hurting."

Hermione sobbed and laid her head on the edge of his bed, unable to stop the tears from coming. "I hate you sometimes, you know that?" she said, her voice partially absorbed by the mattress. "You can be so cruel."

She felt his hand stroke over her hair and rest on the nape of her neck. "I know, Hermione," he said softly. "I know. I'm sorry."

"No you're not," she said, speaking into the bed coverlet. "Malfoys aren't sorry as a rule. You told me that once. Malfoys don't do regret."

She felt rather than heard his chuckle as he continued to lay his hand on her hair. "That was a lie, Granger. To save face. I think you know by now how sorry I am about a lot of things. There's no shortage of regret when it comes to my past – especially when it comes to my past with you."

She raised her head up and met his eyes. "You don't owe me an explanation, Draco," she said softly. "You don't owe me anything. We've already forgiven each other a thousand times over for anything we've ever said and done to each other."

He sighed. "I know. Besides, I'm a Mallery now, remember? Those rules no longer apply to me." He smiled and looked away for a moment, and then he met her eyes again, looking uncertain. "You never told me about Rowle."

She swallowed uncomfortably. "It wasn't something I cared to talk about."

"You told me everything else about your time at the Manor," he said, the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown. "Why didn't you tell me about him? I didn't even know you'd ever interacted with him at all."

"I…" She sighed. "I didn't want to think about it. Rosier and Selwyn, they –" She stopped, taking in the snarl on her friend's pale face. "They didn't do anything, Draco – Rowle interrupted them. And he…well, he made sure that no one cared to try again, you know? He made it so that I wouldn't be…wouldn't be violated. I don't know how he did it. And then Goyle got me out, and that was that."

Draco's jaw ticked, his eyes hot with anger. "He said you repaid the favor?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "I let him go once, when we were fighting in Snowdonia that following April. I could've gotten him. Caught him, killed him, at least wounded him. But I let him go. And that was that. A life for a life."

Draco frowned and cleared his throat. "I won't pretend I know what it's like, being a woman captive –"

"Then don't try," she interrupted, not in the mood for a lecture. "Don't even try, Draco. You promised me a long time ago that you would never judge me. We promised _each other._ Don't question a decision I made over two years ago. I made a judgment call. And yeah, it was stupid, fine, I'll admit that. I let an enemy live to fight another day, to kill our friends, and it was stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , and I'm sorry. But I noticed after that fight near Tryfan that Rowle never targeted me. I saw him multiple times out on the battlefield. His heart just wasn't in it, Draco."

Draco looked reasonably mollified, but fire still flashed in his eyes. "He killed Blaise."

She stared at him, taking in the angular, square planes of his face and the cool pewter of his eyes. "I'm trying to determine if you would not have done the same thing, if you'd been in his position: encountered with a traitor in your midst, under the thumb of the darkest wizard of all time and surrounded by comrades that might kill you for any sign of hesitation – and unlike you and Blaise and Pansy and Goyle and your mother, Rowle didn't know that anyone might feel the same uncertainty he felt; he didn't have a network of spies, and he didn't have family to trust." She paused, taking in Draco's sullen expression. "We all like to think we'd have acted differently in a situation like that. But you and I both know that life doesn't work that way. War doesn't work that way. I'm sorry about Blaise. I didn't know him like you did, and I know he was killed for doing the right thing. I do, however, know exactly what kindness Rowle showed to me once, and I will always – _always,_ Draco – be grateful for his intervention on my behalf. Blaise or no Blaise, Rowle stepped in to keep me from being raped when he could have just stood by and kept his head down, or even joined in and participated. You have no idea the absolute terror that he saved me from. You didn't see…" She swallowed, looking away. She stared at a tile on the floor. "You didn't see what they did with Fay Dunbar. Or what was left of her afterwards. So don't you judge me, Draco."

She felt his hand on her shoulder, and she turned to look at him, unable to keep him from seeing the tears that shined in her eyes. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I didn't know."

His eyes were sincere. Of course they were. Draco was always, always honest with her. She smiled and grabbed his hand. "You should get some rest," she said. "Dumbledore wants to see us both this evening in his office, if you're up for it. We need to get some things ironed out between the three of us. We're playing a dangerous game." She stood. "Now that Madam Soranus has bandaged up my hand, I need to go back to my dorm and get ready for class. I also have to grab a new wand."

His eyes widened. "What happened to your wand, Hermione?"

"It broke in the struggle this morning," she answered, stretching and cracking her back.

"It just…broke?" he clarified, looking suspicious. "How did you manage that?"

"I…it's complicated," she said, shrugging. "Let's just say that Fawkes wasn't a huge fan of Bellatrix's wand, and it stopped working as well for me. Bloody bird seems to think I should whip out the pink ivory wand and use it on a daily basis."

"And he's right," Draco said, looking at her seriously. "That wand was fated for you, Granger. And while we might not be in direct danger here like we were back home, we're still in danger. Hermione, Tom Riddle sleeps just a few floors away from you. Only one floor away from me."

"I can handle Tom Riddle," Hermione said defensively, crossing her arms. "We already have a bit of an understanding."

"Don't underestimate him," Draco warned, looking stern. "I know you. Don't be foolish. Teenager or not, this is still Lord Voldemort we're talking about. Don't get it into your head that he's somehow different just because he hasn't made his third horcrux yet."

"He is different," she said, throwing up her hands. "I'm not denying that he's a monster – he was born a monster, Draco, I think we both know this. But he's also still a man. A boy. He's still sane."

Draco looked uncomfortable. "We'll agree to disagree on that one, Granger."

"I'm not afraid of him, Draco," she said hotly.

"You should be!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Merlin, Granger, don't be an idiot!"

"And why should I be, Malfoy?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips. "What exactly does he have to scare me with? Hmm?"

Draco deflated after a moment, considering her question. "Nothing, really. Still, Hermione. Even if he has nothing to threaten your _safety_ with, be careful that you don't get sucked into his charisma; while your person might not be at risk, your mind might be. Even as the monster he was in our time, he was still persuasive. He knows how to seduce those around him."

"Even so, I'm not in the business of being seduced," Hermione said drily. "The wizards of this era are mostly a bunch of sexist jerks, I've found, and Tom Riddle is included in that. He doesn't take me seriously, and he has zero interest in women."

Draco patted the chair by his bedside, urging her to sit back down. She did so with a huff, crossing her arms. "What?"

"Hermione…what's the one thing that Voldemort _is_ interested in?" he asked softly, his eyes solemn and grey.

"Immortality," she said impatiently.

"Other than that," he said, waving her answer away.

"I don't know," she replied, rolling her eyes in exasperation. "Glory? Kingship? Wearing the skin of his victims as trophies? Please, enlighten me."

" _Power,_ Granger," Draco said, his face deadly serious. "And what's one thing that you have in spades?"

Hermione gulped. "I'm not –"

"You are," he interrupted briskly. "You _are,_ Hermione. And if he hasn't noticed it by now, he will eventually. And having Fawkes inside of you has…changed you. You somehow look different, _brighter_ ; you carry yourself differently…you even smell different. If there is one thing that I bet will catch Tom Riddle's eye, it's power in a pretty package."

She wanted to argue with him. But he was mostly right. She'd already thought about these things – she'd just hoped he would disagree. "Trust me, Riddle hardly notices how pretty women are."

"He'll notice how pretty _you_ are," he argued. "If Tom Riddle has functioning anatomy, he notices attractive women. He just has more important things to worry about: like gaining power. And guess what? Now there's a witch at Hogwarts who's not only pleasing to the eye, but also powerful. Put two and two together, Hermione. You told me that he seems to be mildly interested in you. You told me that you were considering how to use it. I'm dying, Hermione. I'm _literally_ not going to be here come New Years. You will be _on your own._ You have to start thinking about what you need to do to keep yourself safe in this timeline. If Dumbledore is right, and we are currently trapped in an alternate timeline, then that means you have the power to shape the future. _This_ future hasn't happened yet. You have the chance to make a life here for yourself; don't waste it, Hermione."

Hermione swallowed. He was right. "What do you think I should do?"

"I think you should settle in here," he said, leaning back against the pillows and staring up at the vaulted ceiling. "I think you should accept the fact that you're stuck here and make the best of it."

"I don't belong here, Draco," she whispered. "That all sounds lovely, but I accidentally hurt somebody this morning because she got too close while I was having a nightmare. I feel like a hawk masquerading as a sparrow. It's awkward. I've done a good job of faking it so far, but it's painfully obvious that I'm out of place. Besides, I can never make true friends here. I have an entire past that I can't share with anyone. Dumbledore knows the gist of things, but not everything. It's too dangerous to let anyone in on my secrets. So even if I stay here and move on with my life, I would be alone, Draco."

"You're already alone," he said. His eyes were cool and detached, but still hazy with sleep and pain. "You need to get used to it. All you can do is try to forget where you came from and construct memories for yourself from this life as best you can. People will eventually stop asking questions, and you can just start over."

She gaped at him. "And how am I supposed to just _forget,_ Draco?" she hissed angrily. "Hmm? How am I supposed to let memories fade away or morph into something else when every damn night I see Ron's face in my dreams? How do I forget the images that are etched into the back of my eyelids? I have an eidetic memory, remember? There's nothing that I've seen that I can't still picture vividly in my mind's eye. Besides, this morning there was a giant rip in space-time and two of our old foes wandered through the hole and ended up here. What if Harry walks through next? Do I tell him to just forget, to start over? What if Greyback shows up in the Great Hall during breakfast, hmm? Do I hand him a plate of eggs with a cheery 'good morning'? What if Lord Voldemort walks through, red eyes and all? What then, Draco? How the _fuck_ am I supposed to just _move on?"_

She stopped, breathing hard, and realized that Draco had slipped back into unconsciousness. Furious and sad and confused, Hermione stood and stalked from the hospital wing, squeezing her injured hand through the bandages, hissing as the pain grounded her, brought her back down to earth.

She needed to go change clothes, and go to class. She had missed her opportunity to go to Muggle Studies, but Transfiguration with Hufflepuff started at 10:45, and it would help clear her mind. She'd have to use that bloody wand, but at this point, she didn't care. Everything was going to hell in a hand basket anyway. So what if her wand was shiny and pink and flashy? So what if it just made Tom Riddle even more interested in her?

What motivation did she have anymore to care? As Draco had pointed out, she was already alone. He was all she had left in this world, and he was dying. She had nothing left to lose.

Except, perhaps, her sanity.

oooo

* * *

 **Just in case you'd been wondering about it, Hermione does have a singular bad experience at the beginning of the war that tips the scales and pushes her into darkness. I will be hinting at it throughout the story, referring to Hermione's time at Malfoy Manor and the death of Ron, and more information will be revealed as time goes on. So if you ever find yourself scratching your head and saying "Wait…what?" when an allusion is made to a previous event that I haven't fully written in yet – well, don't worry, because everything will be explained in due time. Hence the use of flashbacks at the beginning of some of my chapters. There will be a recurring dream, one that Hermione will conveniently wake up from right before it gets to the bad parts, just to leave you hanging. You're welcome.**

 **Also, someone asked me the other day why Draco was handsome in my fic. They asked if that was somewhere in canon, or a personal preference…so. Here's the deal. I am a hardcore shipper of Dramione, and the Draco I have pictured in my head is a hot piece of ass. So there. That about sums it up. Nowhere in canon does it say Malfoy is attractive. But he is in my head, and he is in my stories, and I think you'd be hard-pressed to find more than a handful of people on Harry Potter fanfiction that don't agree with me. There are like 50 times more Dramione shippers than for any other pairing in the HP universe. Am I right, or am I right?**

 **Giraffe :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**Warnings for mentions of the** ** _intention_** **of rape and other unpleasantness. Nothing too graphic. But if you don't like it, skip over the italicized flashback at the beginning.**

 **So I retook all of the Pottermore tests using my second email account (it's cheating, I know, but I just had to make sure). The first time around, as I mentioned before, I was sorted into Slytherin (not that there's anything wrong with that; I'm actually warming up to the idea) and into Wampus (for Ilvermorny). My patronus was a marsh harrier (never heard of it before – apparently it is a bird of prey, looks something like a hawk), and my wand was determined to be vinewood, dragon heartstring, 12 ¾ inches, and supple. The second time I took the tests I got Ravenclaw, Horned Serpent, hippogriff, and vinewood, phoenix feather, 10 ½ inches, supple.**

 **So of course, the second time didn't resolve anything, so I had to go back and do it again. Which meant I created a new email account (yes, I did this…please don't judge me). So the third time around I got Slytherin, Horned Serpent, osprey, and vinewood, dragon heartstring, 12 ¾ inches, supple.**

 **So I determined that my patronus is raptor related (hippogriffs are part eagle, after all), I probably belong in the Horned Serpent house in Ilvermorny, my wand is most definitely made of vinewood and probably has a dragon heartstring core, and…**

… **I'm a Slytherin. Damn. Dunno how that happened. (I'm still secretly a Ravenclaw at heart. Don't tell anybody. I'm going to go sit over there next to Snape and hope that Tom Riddle notices me – or doesn't notice me? Idk. He's so gorgeous, how do you choose?)**

* * *

oooo

What if I should discover that the poorest of the beggars and the most impudent of offenders are all within me, and that I stand in need of the alms of my own kindness; that I myself am the enemy who must be loved- what then? – _Carl Jung_

But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most? –Twain

There's a drumming noise inside my head  
That starts when you're around  
I swear that you could hear it  
It makes such an almighty sound  
Louder than sirens  
Louder than bells  
Sweeter than heaven  
And hotter than hell  
\- "Drumming Song" by Florence + the Machine

* * *

oooo

 _Monday, October 10, 1999_

 _Malfoy Manor_

" _Pretty little thing, isn't she?"_

 _Hermione flinches when Evan Rosier's index finger trails down her cheek, following the tracks that her tears have made. She does not have the energy to move away, however – Bellatrix has been spending more one on one time with Hermione of late, and today is no exception. She lays on the red carpet of one of the parlors in the manor, utterly spent after having endured bursts of the Cruciatus curse over the course of three hours. She is surprised that she has not soiled herself._

 _Still, her mind does not break. It is a box with steel walls, and she has locked it and thrown the key into the deepest recesses of her brain._

 _She squeezes her eyes closed as she feels a meaty hand grab her breast. Fresh tears leak from her eyes. She has wondered about this – about how long it would take for one of the male Death Eaters to catch on to the fact that she is a girl. She is surprised it has taken this long. But no matter how she has prepared herself for the possibility, the reality of it is far more daunting. Her muscles twitch, wanting desperately to move away, to fight back – but she has no control over her body._

" _Got a body on 'er, that's for sure, even if she's a bit thin," she hears Rosier say. "And she's weak as a day-old kitten, can't even move. That's an opportunity if I ever saw one." She hears the hiss of a zipper, loud in the otherwise silent room. His hand moves down her body to cup her harshly between the thighs. She makes a choking noise in the back of her throat, and she hears him laugh._

" _Oi, Selwyn, pass me that length of rope Bellatrix left behind, would you?"_

 _She hears Selwyn cluck his tongue. "Only if you let me have a go after you're done, mate."_

 _Rosier clucks his tongue. "You're next up. In fact, why don't you take her mouth while I fuck her pretty little cunt?"_

 _Hermione is crying in earnest now as Rosier flips her over onto her stomach none too gently and ties her hands behind her back. She feels him begin to pull down her tattered shorts._

 _Suddenly the door is opening, and she sees the tall, handsome form of Thorfinn Rowle enter, his hair loose and hanging in waves around his shoulders. He looks as if he has been in the rain._

" _Get down to the dining hall, both of you," Rowle says, scowling. "Fenrir just captured three new prisoners, and they need interrogating. Rodolphus asked for you specifically."_

 _Rosier and Selwyn grumble, but Rowle, despite being younger by ten years, ranks above them. And then they are gone, and Hermione sighs in relief as the door closes behind them._

 _She stiffens again as she feels hands at her hips, but then those hands are pulling her shorts up and releasing her from her bonds and turning her back over. She cries tears of relief and terror, and Rowle's large hands help her to sit up, supporting her muscles where they cannot support themselves._

" _Let's get you back to the dungeons," he says gruffly, putting her robe on her body and cinching it closed._

 _She is still crying as he levitates her downstairs with a guiding hand on her shoulder. When they get to the bottom, and he puts her down on the cold stone floor of her cell, she slumps to the ground._

 _She manages to mutter out a quick and desperately genuine, "Thank you, Rowle...Thank you, Thorfinn. Thank you."_

 _She thinks she hears something like "Don't mention it" but she can't be sure because her blood is pounding through her ears. But she feels a cushioning charm cast on the cold stone floor of her cell, and feels the air warm, and she knows that Rowle interrupted his colleagues on purpose – it was no accident or happy coincidence._

 _Months later, when she sees Rowle out on the battlefield, she meets his eyes – bright turquoise, she notices, and realizes she has never seen that eye color on another human being – and lowers her wand, jerking her head. He needs no urging from her. His side is losing this little skirmish, and Hermione could easily engage in a duel with him. But she does not, and Rowle lives to fight another day. A favor for a favor._

* * *

oooo

Hermione sat quietly in Transfiguration, listening to Professor Beery, the Herbology professor, drone on about facial transfiguration, something that Hermione had become especially proficient at over the years; it was a necessity, when you were labeled Undesirable Number Two and were best friends with Undesirable Number One. Polyjuice was reserved for only the most important missions because it took so long to brew.

Professor Dumbledore was out for obvious reasons – he was apparently with Headmaster Dippet, discussing the breach in security this morning and the reason why Hogwarts' two newest students had been required to commit murder. Hermione had been nearly accosted in the halls by Lyall and Ignatius, who had heard rumors that _"you'd been attacked Hermione and we were so worried and who were those guys anyways and did you really kill one of them and is Mallery finally awake and did he really snap that guy's neck and let me see your hand and oh Merlin that's a nasty burn and we heard that Dumbledore said something about there being a rip in space that created a passage between China and Hogwarts and that was really how that portkey ended up sending you here and getting you through the wards and it's how those guys just appeared in the woods this morning and now he and Dippet are going to have to talk to the Minister about increased security measures and –"_

Hermione snapped out of it as she heard someone address her by name.

"Miss Granger?" Professor Beery said, peering down at her with kind brown eyes hidden behind a pair of reading spectacles. Herbert Beery was somewhat out of his element subbing for Transfiguration – he was very much at home in his greenhouses, and seeing him in an actual classroom seemed rather odd. It was like putting a bear in an evening gown and expecting no one to notice anything out of place.

"I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't quite catch that," she said sheepishly. "Could you repeat the question?"

"I was asking about the proper wand movements for making someone's ears shrink," he said, looking at her with equal measures sympathy and discomfort in those earthy brown eyes. It had gotten around the school that she had killed a man, in front of another student, no less. Hermione wanted to crawl under the desks and hide just to get away from the stares of her classmates and professors.

"Erm, a small counter-clockwise circle and swish to the right for the left ear, and a small clockwise circle and swish to the left for the right ear," she answered, unable to look him in the eye. Did he see her as an anomaly, like some did, or as a monster, as others did? Perhaps both? Absently, she rubbed at the bandaged skin on the back of her hand and felt tears of pain spring to her eyes before blinking them away. Sometimes she had to do that – to keep herself from floating away in her own brain. To keep herself from drowning in the memories. Sometimes she had to dig her fingernails into the tender, ravaged skin of her right calf and hold on for dear life as the reality of her situation crashed around her and threatened to sweep her off her feet and into insanity.

"Correct, Miss Granger, thank you," he said, inclining his head towards her. "Five points to Gryffindor."

She swallowed and bowed her head, looking down at her desk as he moved forward with the lesson. When it came time to practice, she turned towards Sabrina, whom she was sitting next to.

"You want to go first?" the prefect asked, smiling at her gently.

"Sure," Hermione replied. She pulled out her pink ivory wand.

Sabrina looked at it with wide, interested eyes. "That's new. Where did you get it? What happened to your old one?"

Hermione sighed. "I picked it up in Africa a few months ago. My walnut one broke this morning when – well. You know."

Sabrina's icy blue eyes widened. "Oh. Sorry, Hermione. I didn't mean to bring it up. I imagine you don't really want to talk about it. It's good that Mallery woke up though, right? I mean, I heard he saved your life. Lucky break, I guess."

Hermione smiled. "Or something like that. If he's up for coming to dinner tonight, you can meet him. I think he'd like you."

The blush on Sabrina's face was instantaneous. "You think so?" she said, tugging nervously at the ends of her sweeping side bangs. "He's nice, right?"

"He's nice to beautiful girls," Hermione said, winking at her. "He's ruthless with everyone else. I think he would probably be a Slytherin, if sorted. He's a sneaky son of a bitch."

Nonverbally, she lifted her wand and changed Sabrina's eye color, enlarged her lips, and shrunk her ears. Sabrina gasped and lifted a mirror to look at her face. "Brilliant, Hermione! Change my nose a little bit and I would hardly recognize myself."

Hermione lifted her wand again and muttered an incantation and the girl's nose widened at the bridge and rounded a bit at the end.

"Merlin! I don't even look like myself anymore!" she giggled, turning her head this way and that to stare at her changed features. Hermione swished her wand and uttered a low _finite_ and Sabrina's face went back to normal. "Okay, my turn," her sweet classmate said, pointing her wand at Hermione's face.

Hermione sighed as she felt her nose change shape, and smiled encouragingly at her friend. It was going to be a long day, she knew. She was already eager for it to be over so she could climb into bed. She might take the invisibility cloak and sneak into the hospital wing to stay with Draco tonight.

She didn't want to sleep alone again. She knew that as soon as she laid her head down and closed her eyes, she would see Thorfinn Rowle's dead aquamarine eyes as the words _Avada Kedavra_ left her lips.

* * *

oooo

At lunch, though her friends still sat by her and attempted to speak with her, she felt like an outcast. Wolfing down her food, having skipped breakfast despite Slughorn's advice, she quickly made her excuses, smiled at her fellow Gryffindors and left. After stopping by the kitchens for a bag of raw beef (much to the confusion of the house elves), she burst through the front doors and onto the grounds. It was especially warm for late September, and she shed her uniform sweater and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt as she tramped down to the opposite side of the lake where she'd been this morning. Depositing her school bag on the grass, she sat on the stump of a tree at the edge of the trees, pulled out the bag of raw meat and waited.

It only took three or four minutes for her to first feel the snorting breath on the back of her neck. Turning slowly, she looked into the milky eyes of the thestral that had come to stand behind her.

"Hello," she said softly, reaching out to pat it on its scaly nose. It snuffled into her hand, and she reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of beef, giggling as its leathery muzzle tickled her fingers. It was careful not to nick her with its sharp teeth as it gobbled up the bit of meat, and she stroked its neck, its long black mane brushing the skin of her wrist.

Several more of the sinister, spectral beasts came to linger around her, all looking for a hand out. She fed each of them by hand, making sure to scratch them on the nose and rub the insides of their ears, which she'd once upon a time found that they liked.

"What on earth are you doing out here, Hermione?" a voice called out, and Hermione looked up to meet the dark, penetrating stare of the one man who was the ultimate bane of her existence.

Tom Riddle looked especially handsome standing in the light of the sun, devoid of robes, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows like hers were and his blazer slung casually over one shoulder. He looked like he'd just walked from the pages of a Moss Bros. advert, his hair parted artfully to one side and his shoes polished to perfection. The greedy gleam in his eyes when he looked at her made her heart race in her chest. Fawkes' heat suddenly flared within her, and she quivered under its intensity.

"Feeding the thestrals, Tom," she said tiredly, finding an especially sensitive spot in one of the thestral's ears. It trembled under her gentle ministrations. "I'd have thought that was obvious."

"What are you talking about?"

She looked up at him, and she almost laughed out loud at his attempt to look confused. Of course. No one would expect him to be able to see the thestrals, because no one could know that he had seen death. Caused death.

"Oh don't be ridiculous, Tom," she said, standing from her seat on the stump and seeking out the members of the herd that hadn't been brave enough to come to her. "I knew from the moment I met you that you had taken a life. It's something in the eyes, you see," she said, smiling as a timid colt sniffed at a piece of beef before snatching it out of her hand and stumbling off with his prize. She caught his eyes as he continued to walk towards her. "It takes one to know one."

His jaw ticked. "I've never had reason to kill, Hermione. You must be mistaken."

She laughed. How utterly moronic he was. How stupidly handsome, how horribly powerful, how devastatingly dark. When the sun glinted off his eyes, they shone blue for a moment. "You have lovely eyes," she said cryptically, squinting at him. It was true. She'd never seen eyes quite that color. She'd just assumed they were black or dark brown, but in the sunshine they looked like the North Sea.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled at her mildly, but the skin around his eyes tightened in barely perceptible confusion and just a touch of discomfort. "Thank you. So do you."

She grinned. "What an irony that such a disfigured soul can walk around with such a pretty face. Wouldn't you agree?"

He froze only feet from her, staring at her with shuttered eyes. "Do you speak of me, or of yourself?"

"Perhaps both, Tom," she said with a sigh. "How many people have you killed?" she asked bluntly.

He cleared his throat and adopted a puzzled look. "You're still under the delusion that I've taken life, Hermione. I assure you that that's not the case."

"And you're still under the delusion that I, like the rest of your misguided little subjects, can't read you," she said, shading her eyes from the sun as she peered up into his face, pale and stark as if carved from marble. "Come now, Tom. Who am I going to tell that will believe me anyway?" She tapped her chin. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say that you've killed…three people. No, four. Yes, definitely four."

She saw the moment that disbelief flashed across his eyes, followed by fury. She grinned, thinking for sure that he was a hair's breath from striking her down with his wand, but after a second he visibly relaxed and smiled at her placidly. "Once again, I don't know where you seem to be getting this information, Granger, but I can assure you that I haven't killed anyone. Don't displace your attributes onto me."

She hummed. "Do you want to know how many people I've killed?" she asked softly, running her hands absently through the mane of a large mare. "Take a guess. I guessed correctly for you," she said, knowing that it would drive him crazy, "so it's only fair to give you a chance to do the same. Come on, Tom, give it your best shot."

He rolled his eyes, sitting down on the stump that she had vacated. He watched her with sharp eyes. His attempt to look bored was cute, when it was obvious that he was anything but.

"I don't know, Hermione," he drawled. "Forty? Fifty?"

Hermione's laugh, this time, was completely genuine. Forty! Fifty! Oh Merlin. What she wouldn't give to only have that many names carved into her heart. "That's funny, Tom." She paused, and looked down at him from where she stood next to the big mild-mannered mare. "One hundred and seventy-seven."

She barely caught the widening of his eyes before they were cold and impassive again. "That's admittedly more than I would have thought," he hedged.

She giggled as an adventurous foal approached him and nosed at his knee. "It seems you have a fan." He looked down at it, both disgusted and obviously fascinated. "How long have you been able to see them?" she asked him, already knowing the answer but wanting him to admit it to her anyway. "And don't lie, Tom Riddle. You already showed a hint of your true colors to me yesterday. Don't turn around and try that illustrious Head Boy act with me now. I think you've already determined that we're beyond that. Besides, I won't tell."

He stared at her for a long moment, and then patted the little filly on the head before shooing it away. It came to her, and she tossed it a piece of meat. "A couple of years," he said, shrugging. "Like you said, no one would believe you if you told them anyway. How long have you seen them?"

She snorted. "I rode one before I was able to see them," she said, smiling at the memory. "It was terrifying. But I was sixteen."

"That doesn't answer my question about _how long_ you've seen them," he returned smartly, "considering we still haven't established how old you actually are."

She turned her face up to the sun and chuckled. The thestral that had first approached her, a young stallion with a puncture through his left wing, came over and nudged her in the stomach with his head. She stumbled and smiled, bringing her hands up to scratch both of his ears, now out of meat.

"You should know better than to ask a woman her age," she said coyly. "It's considered rude to do so. Come now, Tom. I thought your manners were better than that."

"You, woman, are exceedingly frustrating," he said to her, his voice mild but his jaw clenched. "So, one hundred and seventy-seven includes the man from this morning."

She swallowed, looking away. "He was, perhaps, the only one that didn't fully deserve it."

"A necessary evil then, perhaps," Tom said, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Evil is never necessary," she replied, finding it ironic considering who she was talking to. "We delude ourselves with notions of morality when we use such justifications."

He cocked his head. "You're a very curious creature, Hermione Granger," he said. She felt her heart skitter when his dark gaze ever so quickly dropped to her lips before hopping back up to her face.

"You know what they say," she replied with a teasing smirk. "Curiosity killed the cat."

"Stupidity killed the cat," he corrected. "Curiosity was framed."

She gasped mockingly. "Very thoroughly, it seems. How unfair. It's been centuries, and curiosity has been blamed this entire time for the cat's death." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "What's the rest of that saying, though? 'Satisfaction brought it back'?"

His answering grin was lightning fast and equally as stunning. "I think that's how it goes." He stood, and when he was this close to her, facing her, she was suddenly confronted with the bald truth of his not unimpressive height. Without his robes and blazer on, the incredible breadth of his shoulders and the long line of his waist were painfully apparent. He snatched her bag from its spot on the grass. "Are you attending Arithmancy, or are you planning on skipping again?"

She raised her eyebrows. "If you're referring to my absence from Muggle Studies this morning, Tom, I think we can both agree that I was otherwise distracted. I was being seen to in the hospital wing. Bad burn on my hand, you see."

He smirked and held out his hand. "May I?"

Rolling her eyes, she lifted her right hand and placed it in his. "Gently, please," she said, wincing when his thumb passed over her knuckles.

"Ouch," he said, peeling back the gauze enough for him to see the burn, which was healing slowly, as the one on her back had. "I hadn't noticed this before," he said, referring to the faint threads of golden ink that stained the skin of her middle finger. "What is it?"

She let him turned her hand over in his, watching him intently as he studied the pattern. "Just something pretty," she lied.

"I do _hate_ it when you lie to me," he said with a sigh, looking skywards. She jerked when he pressed his thumbnail harder than was polite into the tender skin of her inner wrist.

"Says the wizard whose every other word is a lie," she returned coldly, yanking her hand from his and patting a thestral on the neck before beginning to walk up to the path. "Let's not throw stones in glass houses, Tom."

They walked for a moment in silence until they reached the quad. "I'm not entirely sure why you seem to have such a skewed opinion of me, Miss Granger," he said, the tone of his voice tinged with concern and mild hurt. It made her chuckle, because she knew there wasn't an ounce of truth to the sentiment. "From the moment we met you've treated me oddly. What have I done to incur your suspicion?"

She stopped in the middle of the front courtyard, and he stopped as well, turning back to face her. "Like I said," she said softly. "I'm not one of your little admirers, Tom. You have them all fooled with your pretty white smile and your smooth charm and your oh-so-handsome face. Your perfect grades and your trophy for special services to the school and the way you keep an unlimited supply of candied pineapple on Slughorn's desk – none of that matters to me. That's not what I see when I look at you."

He stared at her. The only accurate way she could describe his gaze was _hungry._ It made her so, _so_ uncomfortable; and made her heart pound so heavily she could hear it in her ears. She wondered if he could hear it, too. "And what _do_ you see when you look at me, Hermione?" he murmured, his dark oceanic gaze wandering her face.

She reached out and tugged her bag from his shoulder, brushing his bicep as she did so, quite by accident. Her breath caught when she felt the muscle there, and she noticed that he twitched at the contact. "Power," she said, placing the leather strap of her bag over her own shoulder. "And darkness. Wrapped up in a frighteningly attractive package." She cleared her throat and met his eyes, suddenly feeling less than brave. "I'm going to go visit with Draco for a while. I'll see you in Arithmancy." She turned away and headed towards the entrance, stepping over the exact spot where Bellatrix Lestrange had met her end less than two weeks ago in a timeline that was fast becoming a dream.

"Give my best to Mallery, if he's awake," Tom's voice called out from behind her. It did not sound as steady as it usually did.

She did not look back, or respond.

* * *

oooo

"I saw you with those…those _things._ "

Tom brushed away his frustration when Hermione did not acknowledge his presence when he sat down next to her in Arithmancy. He was fast becoming used to the oddity that was Hermione Granger.

She was looking at the girl addressing her. Raven Flynn sat to Hermione's left, looking uncomfortable.

"The thestrals?" Hermione responded, shifting her legs so that Tom could slide his chair out and sit in it. Once again, his eyes went to those heinous scars, caused by the werewolf, that peeked out above her black knee socks. Every time he saw them, he was tempted to wince. They still looked so fresh and tender.

Raven's dark eyes flashed. "Is that what they are?" she said, wringing her hands. "I thought I was the only one who saw them. No one else ever seemed to notice them until you."

Tom watched as Hermione smiled at her friend gently. "Only those that have seen death can see thestrals, Flynn. They're invisible to everyone else. You should have seen the look on Tom's face when one of them nudged him on the knee," she said, her voice laced with humor. Only Tom knew why she was so amused. "Just about jumped out of his skin."

She turned her head just slightly towards him and winked. He could not help but grin before he was able to school his face.

"Cheeky," he muttered, low so that only she could hear.

Flynn relaxed, but did not look convinced. "And they aren't dangerous?"

Hermione shrugged. "I imagine that if you were to threaten them they might be dangerous. But I've never found them to be so. They're gentle, by nature. And clever, too." She looked at Raven curiously. "Do you mind me asking…?"

"My sister," the Slytherin girl said lowly. Then she reached into her bag to draw out her supplies, and Granger seemed to understand that it was the end of that particular conversation.

"This is your first time in Professor Rohn's class, isn't it?" Tom asked her, keeping his voice quiet as he pulled his things out.

"Yes," she said simply.

"Where were you last Friday and Thursday afternoon?"

She shrugged, and the action infuriated him. Merlin, the damned woman was never straight with him! Everything was said with a shrug, or a wink, or a smirk, or merely a flash in those _horribly_ entrancing eyes that spoke to her mocking of him.

"I was out."

"Out," he repeated, raising an eyebrow and fixing her with a severe stare. "Out where?"

"Diagon Alley," she said, twirling her quill in her fingers. "I needed a cat."

"You skipped classes Thursday afternoon and all day Friday to get a cat?" he asked incredulously. He scoffed. "Come on, Hermione."

She beamed at him. "She's quite lovely. I named her Narcissa. Of course, we stopped for some ice cream along the way, and then we just had to go back on Friday to peruse the bookstore – Cissa just loves to read, you know – and then we went to this little jewelry shop to get her a nice garnet collar. She looks great in Gryffindor red, you see."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Cute." He frowned. "You genuinely might be the _most_ annoying woman I've ever had the displeasure of meeting."

She smirked slowly, her eyes dark and triumphant, and all of a sudden he felt a low stirring in his groin.

Lust was not an unfamiliar concept to him. He'd…dabbled. He'd played around with the pleasures that the body had to offer. Seducing Primrose Selwyn had been as easy as breathing, and _Obliviating_ her afterward had been even easier. He'd done this particular routine several times last year, and she was none the wiser; and when he'd thirsted for something different, he turned to Druella Rosier and Felicity Carmichael, and repeated the same process with them. Over the summer he had spent a day in Paris – the nice thing about being of legal age was that he could apparate away from the orphanage for a day and no one knew; it was how he'd gone to Little Hangleton and hunted down his father and grandparents – and had visited a brothel there, his curiosity once again getting the better of him. If there was anything that really truly bothered Tom, it was the prospect of not knowing something. Carnal knowledge, however silly it sometimes was in the big picture, was still knowledge. And if ever he needed it to further his plans, he would rather know what he was doing. So he knew the ins and outs of a woman's body and knew what the fairer sex had to offer.

He had never been quite so taken with one before, however.

He had chosen Selwyn, Carmichael and Rosier because they were all reasonably attractive and no blushing virgins by far. The woman he'd spent the day at the brothel with had been fifteen years his senior, easily, but had been voluptuous and experienced. But he had not been _taken_ with them. He had not _wanted_ them for himself, body and mind. This _ridiculous, annoying thorn in his side_ named _Hermione Granger_ was _getting under his skin_ and he bloody well _hated_ it.

She turned away, and his attraction for her simmered lowly in his stomach. It was made all the more complicated by the fact that she had completely bypassed all of the defenses he put up to keep people at arms length. She was frighteningly intuitive, annoyingly perceptive, in possession of a titillating, acerbic wit, and, above all, painfully bright. The intelligence that shone out from those enrapturing brown eyes was terrifying in its intensity, and, by _God,_ he wanted it. He _wanted_ it.

What he so desperately wanted to know was how she had known, without even a sliver of a doubt, that he had killed. And not only that he'd killed, but how many people he'd killed. A lucky guess, but damn, the woman was _good._ More concerning still was how little discomfort he felt now that she knew. At first he was upset, of course. But for some reason he just _knew_ that she had been telling the truth when she'd said that she wouldn't tell anyone else.

When he'd watched her out there, in the sun, interacting with the evil-looking thestrals as if she belonged there among them, he'd really truly for the first time taken note of just how striking she was. If he were to take her physical appearance and superimpose it onto another woman's interior, he would be just as unimpressed as he might be with a reasonably pretty girl like Selwyn. He would appreciate the aesthetics, but no more than that. Though she was attractive, she was not your typical beauty; not like Iris Fawley or Druella Rosier or Raven Flynn or Antoinette Haywood. It was what lay beneath the exterior that had him so enraptured. Sure, Granger was pretty enough, but it was the power that he saw humming underneath her lightly browned skin, the lights that flickered in those hot-then-cold eyes, and the enigmatic warmth of her smile that made his heart beat faster and his loins stir. It was the confidence with which she moved, the way she was not self-conscious about her scars and imperfections; as if she had bigger and better things to worry about.

"I'm glad you chose to take Advanced Arithmancy. It's not a subject that many like," he said, taking out his book and parchment and watching her out of the corner of his eye.

She smiled, her eyes shifting, staring into a past that he couldn't see but wished more than anything he could; perhaps he could catch her off guard sometime and slip into her mind unnoticed. "Arithmancy has always been my favorite subject. My friends used to give me hell for being such a bookworm."

"Well, I think you'll enjoy Professor Rohn," he said, turning slightly in his seat to face her. He leaned back in his chair casually, drumming his fingers on his book. "She is a most _stimulating_ teacher."

Triumph rose within him at the sudden pale pink flush that stole up her throat and rouged her cheeks. Tom sometimes had trouble reading her, though she was more expressive than some, especially with those eyes – but the one thing she didn't seem to be able to control was the blush that suffused her face with rosy color anytime she felt bashful or embarrassed or uncomfortable. And he was finding that he _delighted_ in making her uncomfortable. The spots of color on her cheeks only served to confirm something that he'd started to suspect from their walk in the halls yesterday afternoon: that she was not entirely immune to his charm, no matter what she said. She had already revealed that she found him attractive, though that was hardly unusual; what _was_ unusual was that she'd blatantly admitted to it. The directness with which she spoke, both to him and, it seemed, everyone else, was as endearing as it was peculiar. But then she could turn right around and be as cryptic as ever, which was infuriating.

Before she could respond, no doubt with something wry and witty that would serve to distract from her discomfort, Professor Rosemary Rohn stalked into the room, as curious as ever.

The fifty-five-year-old teacher was short and wiry of build, with youthful skin and close-cropped dark grey hair that sometimes looked suspiciously bluish under certain light. Her eyes were a penetrating greenish-blue, and they sparkled with a secret humor that very much reminded Tom of the enigmatic girl sitting to his left. If he could compare the woman to an animal he would probably think of her as some sort of patient, predatory reptile. A lizard of some sort, perhaps.

Rohn stood behind her desk in dark grey robes, her sharp eyes scanning the class. "Ah, yes," she said, looking right at Hermione. "I was made aware that I would have a new student in my Friday class. And you are all caught up, yes?" she asked, looking down at a piece of parchment in her hand. "In fact, if your placement tests are to be believed, Miss Granger, you don't really even need to be in this class, do you?"

Granger cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Er, well, I still have to take our N.E.W.T.s and all – my schooling has been sporadic at best, and I might be a little rusty on some things," she said, sounding genuinely humble. It seemed that the girl was, by nature, not prone to gloating and basking in the limelight.

Professor Rohn did not say anything in response, just looked at Hermione with something like skeptical amusement, pursing her lips. Finally she set the piece of parchment down on her desk, pulled a book out of her bag, and opened it on her desk.

"Today I want to look at page eighty-seven of your textbook…

* * *

oooo

"I'm sorry about this morning. The things I said were insensitive."

Draco sighed in relief as his best friend leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. She continued to push his wheelchair slowly through the halls. She had been given a pass on DADA today, because of her wounded hand, and he couldn't help but be relieved when she'd told him of her agreement to partner up with Riddle. The longer she could put that off, the better.

"You were right on a lot of points, Draco," she said quietly, casting a _Muffliato_ around them as they walked. They were on their way to Dumbledore's office to discuss…things. And boy, were there things to discuss.

"Sometimes being right doesn't justify being cruel," he replied, his voice soft. "And sometimes I oversimplify things. I know that starting over here isn't easy, or simple. I'm sorry that I pushed you on it. It's not my place."

"Water under the bridge, Draco," she said. "Don't worry about it. We've exchanged harder words than that, and we're still friends. We'll always be friends."

"We've been through too much together to not be friends, Hermione," he replied, chuckling. Nonetheless, he felt his heart constrict. To have earned the trust and friendship of Hermione Granger was an incredible honor, and he wouldn't trade it for anything. If he had to be stuck in a situation like this with anyone, he wouldn't want it to be anyone but her. "So, let's change the subject."

"You want to talk about my tentative plan to attempt to catch Riddle's attention, keep it, and use it to shape the future? Yeah. It's a doozy."

"It's riskier than keeping our heads down," he said, contemplating her idea. "More eyes on us mean less room to slip up. Putting ourselves in the spotlight leaves us more vulnerable, and we'll have to be more careful. However," he continued, as she began to interrupt, "I think you're right. At this stage we've drawn too much attention to ourselves – and it's hard to undo something like that. Plus, I'd prefer not to have to sit by idly and pretend I'm just some average Joe. It's hard for me to feign mediocrity. It's even harder for you. You're a showoff by nature."

She scoffed and hit him on the shoulder. "I am not! I'm only confident in my abilities, and when I see someone doing things wrong, I have to correct them – for the sake of knowledge, Draco. For the betterment of society." She sniffed, holding her head up high like she did when she was feeling defensive or self-righteous. "You're the arrogant toe-rag that likes to brag about your abilities. Don't cast aspersions onto my character simply because you don't want to admit to your own flaws."

"My own flaws?" he asked incredulously, putting a hand to his chest. "I beg your pardon? I don't have _flaws._ Flaws are so… _common."_

He counted it as a personal triumph when she giggled. "Oh yes, and the great Draco Malfoy is _anything_ but common."

"Damn right," he muttered with a small smile. "So, if we're going to do this whole 'let's catch teenage Voldemort's attention so that he'll be intrigued so that perhaps we can somehow use it to manipulate him' thing, then I think you should definitely use your rightful wand, Hermione." He looked over his shoulder at her and caught her frown.

"I know," she said, sighing. "I don't really have much of a choice. I've already double-checked with Bellatrix's wand – it's not fixable. It was cracked vertically and horizontally, and there's no mending it. I've already used the pink ivory wand for Transfiguration this morning. Riddle hasn't seen it yet, but no doubt the rumor mill has done its work and he'll know about it soon if he doesn't already, which means he'll find some subtle, insidious way to ask me about it and try to glean more of my story from me. I think I frustrate him. Tom Riddle is very used to getting what he wants, and I think he's less than pleased that he doesn't know much of anything about us. No doubt he already has people in the system looking into our pasts, but I've fabricated everything, and made things purposefully vague. I did the bare minimum when it came to our identities. Just enough so that we can have a future here and not have to worry about the logistics."

Draco did not mention the elephant in the room: that he was dying and therefore wouldn't have a future here. It seemed unnecessary to bring it up. He knew that Dumbledore had given Hermione a pass to the Restricted Section and had been researching his condition already, but he knew his aunt well enough to know that whatever curse she had cast was meant to kill, no doubt slowly and painfully. It was odd, knowing he was going to die. It was different during war, when you expected sudden death at any time. Dying slowly in a place of peace was far different, and he had not prepared himself for this sort of leisurely demise as he had for a quick _Avada Kedavra_ to the back.

"I'm sorry I missed your birthday," Draco said quietly. "How are you doing – you know, with everything? I know you don't like to talk about it, and we don't have to, but I just want to make sure that I know how best to be there for you. It's a tough time of year for me, too, just knowing that you're in such pain."

Hermione smiled down at him, but her eyes were a little watery. He was impressed with her ability to hold it together so soon after the anniversary of Ron's death. "I'm doing all right so far," she said with a sigh. "It's easier, this time. Perhaps it's because I've been so distracted with our situation, but perhaps…well. I don't know. Does that mean I'm…moving on?"

Draco shrugged. "I think it's a step in the right direction. Don't look at it too hard, Granger. Just allow yourself to feel – don't analyze your feelings, and whether they might be right or wrong or just weird. They just are what they are. Let it happen. And if you are moving on, don't be ashamed," he added, knowing where her mind was going. "You aren't leaving your love for him behind, Hermione. You'll always love him. It just means that you're one step closer to letting him become a positive memory, rather than a crippling loss. After some time his absence won't feel so glaringly obvious. And that's natural."

Hermione wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "You must think I'm such a crybaby. You've lost people, too. Your parents, Pansy, Blaise, Goyle…I know you've had a tough go of it too, but I never see you cry about it. I'm sorry."

Draco let out a wry chuckle. "I was conditioned, at an early age, not to cry, Granger. But it's different, for you. I held no special love for Lucius; you, more than anyone, know this. I loved my mother, but we were never really close – not like your relationship with your parents. Blaise was never really a friend – more of an ally. I can't say that I knew Goyle particularly well, as he and Crabbe were always thick as thieves growing up. I always saw him as being unintelligent, and I thought myself above him. Losing Pansy was the hardest…especially with, well…" He swallowed. "The way it happened. But don't get any ideas about comparing my loss with yours, Hermione. It's not the same. You've always formed deeper attachments with people than I have."

"But you've formed a deep attachment to me," she said softly. "You love me, right Draco?"

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. He had always been uncomfortable with displays of emotion, but if there was one person that made those reservations disappear it was Hermione bleeding Granger. She was the only person he had ever formed a deeper connection with, besides maybe Pansy. "Yeah, yeah, Granger, you know I do," he said flippantly. "Don't push your luck."

She smiled and smoothed her hand over his hair. "I love you too, you know."

He felt his throat constrict tightly. He playfully nudged his head back into her stomach. "Keep talking like that, and I'll start to get ideas. Cut it out."

She grinned, and they continued on to the Transfiguration office, pausing in front of the door to knock. The door swung open for them, and as Draco looked through he spotted Dumbledore behind his desk, his wand raised to let them in. Hermione quickly pushed his wheelchair inside. He'd sworn up and down that he was perfectly capable of walking, he'd run all the way down to the lake this morning, thank-you-very-much, but Madam Soranus and Hermione had both been overbearing mother hens and had forced him into the embarrassing contraption.

"Ah, Mister Mallery, Miss Granger, do come in," Dumbledore said kindly, waving his wand and shutting the door behind them, locking it and warding it. "We have much to discuss."

"The understatement of the year, Professor," Draco said as Hermione pushed his wheelchair to rest in front of the desk. Despite having been the one being pushed, he felt like he had been the one doing the pushing. His insides burned and his muscles ached.

Even if no one had told him, Draco would still have known he was dying. He'd known from the minute he'd woken up that morning. His heartbeat was sluggish, it hurt to breathe, and his head was pounding more often than not. And he was finding that he had to pee almost every waking hour.

Hermione, not one to waste time, got right down to business. "So, Professor, you think that our situation is born of traveling across multiple timelines and dimensions into a parallel universe."

"I suspect that Minkowski was on the right track when it comes to the theory of relativity and how it correlates with space-time," he said, nodding.

"Go too far into that frame of mind and you get into things like the string theory landscape and chaotic inflation."

Draco looked between the two, suddenly feeling as intellectual as a mountain troll. "The what and what? Who is Minkowski?"

"In physics, space-time is any mathematical model that combines space and time into a single interwoven continuum," Hermione explained. "Space is considered three-dimensional, while time consists of one dimension – the 'fourth dimension.' Hermann Minkowski proposed the theory for combining space and time into a single manifold in 1908."

Draco stared at her.

She frowned. "On another note, you have Hugh Everett's proposition on many-worlds."

Dumbledore leaned forward. "I'm not familiar with Hugh Everett. Then again, I am not muggleborn like you are, Hermione. Please, explain."

"Everett didn't come up with his theory until 1957, Albus, so I wouldn't expect you to have heard of him," she said in explanation. "The many-worlds interpretation is an interpretation of quantum mechanics that asserts the objective reality of the universal wave-function collapse. Many-worlds implies that all possible alternate histories and futures are real, each representing an actual 'world' – or 'universe.'"

Draco continued to stare. Even Dumbledore was starting to look confused.

Hermione cleared her throat. "In layman's terms, the hypothesis states that there is a very large – perhaps infinite – number of universes, and everything that could possibly have happened in our past, but did not, has occurred in the past of some other universe or universes. Before many-worlds, reality had always been viewed as a single unfolding history. Many-worlds, however, views reality as a many-branched tree, wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized."

"So basically, we are in a completely different world," Draco hedged, feeling like a fish out of water. "The same planet, the same characters, and the same projected path – but things could easily unfold differently than they do in our timeline." He paused. "So nothing we do here will change the future we came from?"

"The future we came from is still unfolding precisely how it was when we left," she answered. "However, time is not necessarily running at the same speed. Hence why we've been here for a week and a half, and when Macnair and Rowle came through this morning only minutes had passed in that timeline. A couple of hours, at most, judging by the state of the cut underneath Macnair's eye. Five years here might only translate as a month over there."

"But normally these universes wouldn't affect one another."

"No," she said, biting her lip. "Fawkes ripped us from one universe and into another, however, meaning that this timeline is 'contaminated,' so to speak. Things might be a bit tangled. And who knows how many other parallel universes we had to come through to get to this one."

"There is a possibility that this particular universe is not one of the ones adjacent to your original one," Dumbledore added, looking thoughtful. "However, considering that two others from your time wandered through a hole in the fabric of space-time, I find it unlikely that they are too far removed from one another. Besides, I doubt Fawkes has the kind of power to cross multiple bubbles of space-time."

"Assuming that the parallel timelines are linear," Draco said, beginning to understand.

"Assuming that, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "At least operating under this theory, the grandfather paradox is not even something that needs to be considered."

Draco nodded. "Meaning that nothing we do in this timeline will prevent us from being born – seeing as we were conceived in another dimension of space-time." He paused. "Am I getting this right?"

"For the most part, yes," Hermione responded. "Despite its title, the grandfather paradox does not exclusively regard the impossibility of killing one's own grandfather to prevent one's birth," she said. "Rather, the paradox regards _any_ action that alters the past. Another example would be using scientific knowledge to invent a time machine, then going back in time and – whether through murder or otherwise – impeding a scientist's work that would eventually lead to the invention of the time machine. An equivalent paradox is known in philosophy as _auto-infanticide_ , going back in time and killing oneself as a baby.

"A variant of the grandfather paradox is the 'Hitler paradox' or 'Hitler's murder paradox,' a fairly frequent trope in muggle science fiction, in which the protagonist travels back in time to murder Adolf Hitler before he can instigate World War II. Rather than necessarily physically preventing time travel, the action removes any _reason_ for the travel, along with any knowledge that the reason ever existed, thus removing any point in travelling in time in the first place. Additionally, the consequences of Hitler's existence are so monumental and all-encompassing that for anyone born after the war, it is likely that their birth was influenced in some way by its effects, and thus the grandfather paradox would directly apply in some way.

"What we're dealing with is another variant entirely: a parallel universe approach to time travel. When the time traveler kills their grandfather, they are actually killing a parallel-universe version of their grandfather, and the time traveler's original universe is unaltered."

"So I could, in theory, hunt down my grandfather right now and murder him, and while I wouldn't be born in this timeline I wouldn't disappear because I came from a different timeline that would remain unaffected by what I do in this one," Draco projected; he made sure not to mention that his grandfather was Abraxas Malfoy, who was currently twenty-two and recently engaged to a much younger French witch who was still at Beauxbatons; they would end up marrying in the spring of 1952, and his father would be born two years later.

"Precisely," Hermione confirmed. Draco nearly smiled at the eagerness and determination in her expression. He enjoyed Hermione like this: brain working impossibly fast, eyes alight with passion and intelligence. She was in her element when in discussion with fellow intellectuals.

"However, say time-turners allowed for more than a few hours of time-travel," Dumbledore interjected, "and I used one to go back in time. I would be going back in time in _this_ timeline, and then the grandfather paradox would become a very relevant thing that would need to be discussed. Then you get into the question of whether or not time can actually be changed, or if the future was as it was because of your time-travel in the first place. There is a thought that basically, if you travel to the past, you were _always_ in the past, and the timeline would unfold exactly how you'd seen it unfold in the future that you'd come from."

"Which is unlikely here, because if that were true, Dumbledore would undoubtedly have recognized us growing up as the two people who had mysteriously arrived at Hogwarts in 1944," said Hermione.

"That really doesn't mean much, Hermione," Draco said with a snigger. "Future Dumbledore never would have let on that he knew such a thing."

Hermione grinned at Albus, who looked equal parts amused and frustrated that they knew his future self so well. "You do become very diabolical, Professor," she said. "Not that you aren't that way already." She looked over at Draco. "Even if Dumbledore knew and kept it to himself, you better believe that You-Know-Who would have done something about it. He spent years fighting against us. He would have recognized us as soon as we hit puberty, if not before."

"You-Know-Who?" Dumbledore said, raising his eyebrows. "Once again, though you have made sure to shield many images from me in the memories you have allowed me to view, I assume you speak of Tom Riddle – unless the villain you have been hinting at this entire time is Grindelwald?"

"I still don't think it is wise to say one way or the other, Albus," Hermione said, looking uncertain. "I'm still trying to determine how to go about keeping this future from looking like the one we came from."

"What I have seen from your memories does not look good, I will admit," Dumbledore said quietly. "Speaking of not looking good…your condition, Mr. Mallery, is quite grave." He stood, walked over to a small table pushed up again the wall, and lifted two books, one as thick as the width of Draco's hand and one as thin as the width of his pinky. He came back to his desk and set them down gently. "I know you've been doing some research on your own, Miss Granger, but I took the liberty of getting in touch with Lancelot Prewett, an acquaintance of mine at St. Mungo's. He recommended these two books, among others – unfortunately, these are the only ones out of those he mentioned that we carry in the school library. I've also sent word to a good friend of mine who has endless connections, Gerald Snigget – he gave me a name that I think would be worth following up on." He handed Draco a strip of parchment, on which was written the name _Octavius Barenbolm_ in neat, spidery script. "He's a German curse-breaker who works out of Tangier. I'm working on getting a portkey for the two of you. He might be able to shed some light on your condition, Mr. Mallery; though from all of the reading I have been doing on your behalf these last few days, and what Miss Granger has been researching, I cannot say that I hold out much hope of anyone knowing anything. Especially considering that the curse you were hit with was cast by a witch from the future – something she very well may have come up with herself. If it hasn't been invented yet, then there isn't a known counter-curse."

Draco sighed. "Knowing her, she didn't ever intend on producing a counter-curse," he muttered bitterly, thinking of his deranged aunt. "Thank you for all of the time and effort you've spent helping us, Professor Dumbledore," he continued. "I know how many things you have to worry about these days, and it means a lot to both of us that you've taken such an interest in us."

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I admit that Grindelwald has become frighteningly bold these last few months. For the past several years he has stayed on the continent, keeping away from England because, well – I suspect he doesn't much fancy having to deal with me, to be honest, and the feeling is quite mutual." He leaned back in his chair. "But he has sent agents to Britain, and I've heard rumors that he will not leave our island alone for much longer. Which means he has decided to face me. Ultimately, I fear I will have to duel him." He cleared his throat. "But enough of all that. An old man shouldn't burden his students with such things."

"All due respect, Professor," Draco countered, meeting his old headmaster's eyes, "you aren't likely to find many others that understand your situation as we do."

"Please do feel free to share things with us, Albus," Hermione said softly. "I know you tend to be secretive by nature, but there isn't a whole lot about your past – or present, or future – that we aren't privy to." She paused. "We know about your childhood, and about your relationship with Grindelwald. I won't mention it again, because I know it's sensitive, but attempting to hide things from us that we already know seems counterproductive."

"Besides," Draco said, rubbing his chin, thinking back to everything he'd learned about his old headmaster over the years, "In our timeline, Grindelwald never made it back over to Britain after rising to power; like you said, Dumbledore, he doesn't want to face you. In our time he stayed on the continent for the most part, with a brief foray into America in the 1920s. That means that even before our arrival here, this timeline was different."

"It's impossible to know what's changed," Hermione said softly. "Little things, like the fertilization of an egg, even; a classmate of ours that was a girl in our original timeline might end up being a boy in this one, or might have a twin sister or something of the like. We just can't know."

"That makes things even less stable for you, I fear," Dumbledore said sagely. "You know how the future unfolds, but some details are different. Say a young muggleborn boy, before he learns of the wizarding world, gets hit by a car and dies in your timeline. In this one, the car is running five seconds behind, and the boy survives, and grows up to be Minister of Magic someday; or the next dark wizard – perhaps Gellert's protégé. So assuming you know how things go and acting accordingly might get you into some serious trouble."

"We'll try to adjust our thinking to allow for those possibilities," Hermione said, nodding, looking determined; but Draco could see the insecurity in her eyes. "But it's something I hadn't really thought of until now. It does complicate things."

"As if things aren't complicated enough already," Draco said sarcastically.

Hermione reached over and clasped his hand. "We'll figure this out, Draco. We're going to do everything we can to make things work. All my spare time has been reading up on time-travel, dark curses and phoenixes."

"I understand that Fawkes was responsible for bringing you here," Dumbledore said, looking at the perch where his brightly plumed companion usually sat, "but I sense there is something more to it."

Hermione grimaced, and Draco met her eyes. How much should they tell him?

"Might as well, Hermione," he said, shrugging. "He might have some insight. I'm at a loss when it comes to your condition."

"Condition?" Dumbledore said, looking at Hermione with sharp, curious eyes. "You have my undivided attention, my dear."

Hermione swallowed. "Well, the Fawkes from our timeline didn't just bring us here…he kind of…stuck around, so to speak." Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, and Hermione continued, telling him the story of how Fawkes had come to reside inside of her, where he currently simmered, seemingly looking on through her eyes with mild interest as they discussed him.

"My, that _is_ curious," the older professor said. He stroked his beard and stared at Hermione. "If you would be amenable, I would like to do a couple of tests with you."

"Tests?" Hermione said suspiciously, plucking at her sleeves anxiously. "What kind of tests?"

"I'd like to try to determine the scope of your abilities," he explained. "Phoenixes are remarkable creatures, and you currently house the spirit of one within your body. Also, Fawkes brought you here for a reason, though I can't begin to imagine what it might be. Perhaps this was his chance to give you a second start in life?"

Draco shook his head. "He would have brought Po –"

"Draco!" Hermione hissed, and Draco caught his slip of the tongue just in time. "Best not go throwing around names like that," she said, referring to Harry. "However, you're right: if Fawkes had wanted to give us a new life, he would have brought _him_ , too. He loved Ha –" She cut herself off, almost making the same mistake Draco had. "Well, he loved him, and knew that Dumbledore did as well. Fawkes never would have left him behind. That can't be it."

"I will think some more on it," Dumbledore said, looking painfully curious about the name they had almost mentioned – a name that might be dangerous if anyone, namely one Tom Riddle, were to find out about what the boy might do in the future – but not asking about it. "If only Fawkes could talk."

"He's more cryptic than you ever were," Draco said cheekily, rolling his eyes. "No offense, Professor."

"None taken, Mister Mallery," the old wizard returned, looking amused. "Regardless, I would like to try a few things with you, Hermione, if you would be interested in perhaps learning exactly what you can do with these new powers Fawkes has given you access to. You already said that he has loaned you a little extra power on a couple of occasions. I'd like to see just how much he might let you tap into that."

Hermione bowed her head in acquiescence, though Draco could see how nervous the proposition made her. "When would you like to start?"

"Tomorrow morning, if you'd like," Dumbledore suggested. "We can spend an hour or two doing some preliminary tests and see what we find, and then we can make plans for later meetings, if needed. I am headed to the Ministry tomorrow afternoon to get that portkey for Tangier – I've set it up to leave next Friday at twelve noon from the Hog's Head, and you will catch a portkey home from the Moroccan Ministry on Sunday at three o'clock in the afternoon, at which time it will bring you back to the Hog's Head, where you will be received by either myself or another professor. I wish I could go with you, and Headmaster Dippet will no doubt be displeased that you will not be chaperoned, but I hardly think the two of you need an attendant, do you? I am quite certain you can take care of yourself."

"I think we can probably handle it," said Draco dryly. "Has Madam Soranus been notified of this little excursion, or are you just waiting until we're actually gone to tell her and the headmaster? I doubt she'll be as easy to manipulate into submission as Dippet will, especially with how overbearing and mothering she's been with my condition and me. It's already driving me crazy, and I've only been awake for a few hours."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Very astute, Draco. Don't worry about Soranus – I have already sat down with her and discussed the trip. She thinks you will be able to handle the stress of portkey travel just fine by next Friday, but she isn't a hundred percent sure. She has agreed to keep the journey under wraps from all others, for now; the only ones that know you are going are Soranus, Professor Merrythought, a couple of Ministry employees that may or may not have been _Confunded,_ and myself. However, Soranus would not agree unless she was given the right to deem you unfit to travel after all – she won't know for sure until she can better see the progression of the curse. For now, Mister Mallery, I would suggest a very strict potion, diet and exercise regimen that will get your stamina up a bit. If she sees you walking around and attending classes, she will be more likely to let you travel next week. Otherwise, Hermione will go alone, though sending a student to another country by herself goes against every instinct I have as a professor – even if said student can take care of herself better than most of the adults I know." His eyes twinkled at them, and they both smiled at him gently. "Now: any questions?"

Draco shrugged. "A million more than I can ask, Professor, but nothing urgent. Hermione?"

She sighed and stood up, stretching. "I suppose I'll see you in the morning, Albus. What time, and where?"

"Meet me here at my office at nine," he said, standing with her. Hermione took the handles of Draco's wheelchair and turned him towards the door. "And wear something that you don't mind potentially damaging, if you will."

She turned and smiled at him, and Draco did the same. "Thank you again, Professor. You enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

"You do the same, Miss Granger," he returned with a gentle smile. "And you as well, Mister Malfoy."

Draco jolted in his chair, then turned around and narrowed his eyes. "What did you call me, Professor?" he said, his heart beating fast in his chest. How…?

"Did I say Malfoy?" Dumbledore asked cryptically. "Beg pardon. Silly me. I meant Mallery." He shot Hermione and Draco an infuriating wink. "Have a good day, both of you. Do try to keep out of trouble."

"Yes, Professor," they both replied, resigned. Of course, Draco suddenly remembered that, even without using Legilimency, Dumbledore just _knew_ things. Bloody old fool.

He shut the door behind them, and Hermione just looked at him. "Did he get inside your head?"

Draco glared at her over his shoulder as she began to push him down the hall. "Don't insult me, Hermione."

She pouted. "How did he know?"

Draco shrugged, wincing as he found another muscle that was sore. "He taught my grandfather in school, I reckon. I saw pictures of Abraxas as a young man. He looked very much like my father and me – only broader. I suppose it wasn't too hard of a connection to make."

Hermione sighed. "Let's just hope no one else makes the same connection," she said lowly.

"Let's hope," he murmured in agreement. He could not help but feel extremely uneasy as they made their way back to the hospital wing for his afternoon check up and dose of potions.

Just how on earth were they going to make this work? It seemed like a disaster waiting to happen. He could feel the edge on which they very precariously sat. It was not a comfortable position to be in.

He never thought he would wish for war; but he _knew_ war. It was an old friend. He barely remembered how to function in a school environment, and it was made all the more difficult to adjust knowing that Lord Voldemort, younger and more inexperienced than the one he knew from back home but no less powerful, slept one floor below him; and that his deadly serpent lie deep beneath the lake, just waiting once more for the day in which she would be allowed to roam the castle freely again and continue eliminating muggleborns at her master's behest.

Hopefully, in this timeline, she wouldn't be woken again until 1992, as it had been in their old timeline. Because no matter what sort of research Hermione and Dumbledore had been doing and would continue to do, Draco just _knew_ that he would die…and therefore, thank _Merlin,_ he wouldn't be around to deal with it.

Because if there was one thing Draco hated, it was a big bloody snake…though as a Slytherin, he would never be caught dead admitting it. That was one secret he would take to the grave.

oooo

* * *

 **Yes, I know that both Professor Burke and Professor Beery have the same first name. That was sort of accidental, but it's too late now. My bad.**

 **Also, I know it was probably silly of me not to mention it, but I kind of hope you all assumed that Hermione casts the** _ **Muffliato**_ **charm any time she has a private conversation with Draco (including the one-sided ones). Idk, I figured it was kind of like a "duh" thing. Also, I just wanted to point out that Hermione has been researching Draco's condition; I just didn't really feel like writing about it because it sounded sort of mundane. I thought I'd hinted at her doing some extracurricular reading because of all the library books checked out, but I think my hints weren't obvious enough. But I'll start being a little more careful about the details from now on.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Just for the record, the English use the Celsius system rather than the Farenheit system. So when I say it's down below 2 degrees, I'm talking about Celsius, so that means that it's down to about 35 degrees Farenheit. Just trying to keep things as consistent as possible, seeing as consistency isn't my greatest strength and I'm trying to work on it.**

 **Once again, thank y'all so much for reviewing my shit. It means a lot, and it keeps me writing. I appreciate it.**

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A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends. -Baltasar Gracian, The Art of Worldly Wisdom

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them - George Eliot

Everywhere the human soul stands between a hemisphere of light and another of darkness; on the confines of the two everlasting empires, necessity and free will. -Thomas Carlyle

War does not determine who is right – only who is left. –Bertrand Russell

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 _Tuesday, November 16, 1999  
_ _Number 12 Grimmauld Place_

 _She wakes for the first time after the ordeal sometime in the early morning. Birds sing cheerily outside, and though the sun has not yet come up, the sky steadily changes from a midnight blue to the lovely indigo of impending dawn. Grabbing the blanket from her bed, she wraps it around her pajama-clad form – and briefly wonders who helped her change her clothes, because she cannot quite remember._

 _But she remembers what came_ _ **before**_ _very clearly._

 _Not daring to close her eyes for fear of what she might see etched onto the back of her eyelids, she clears her mind, focusing on the familiar smell of coffee, and heads down the stairs with jerky movements, avoiding the creaky steps, loathe to wake her housemates._

 _She doesn't really want to see them right now._

 _Nonetheless, she hears a soft noise from the kitchen. But there is only one person who is ever awake this early, and somehow the thought of seeing him brings her relief; for Hermione knows he is the only one who will never show her pity. He is probably the only person in the world that has never lied to her, which has been both somewhat detrimental to their friendship and yet somehow its saving grace. Because of this mutually honest rapport, they know that they can each count on the other to always be consistent. And right now, Hermione needs consistency more than anything._

 _She slowly pushes the swinging kitchen door open, standing uncertainly in the threshold. She shifts her feet. Her legs are still unsteady from two months of daily torture._

 _Draco Malfoy turns, his expression as unreadable as ever, and holds up a pot of coffee for her perusal. "Coffee?" he murmurs, his voice still heavy with sleep. He begins pouring her a cup even before she nods her head yes. He tops it off with a bit of cream, no sugar, and offers it to her with an outstretched hand, demanding that she shuffle over to take it from him._

 _Another thing about Draco that she appreciates: he is never an enabler._

 _And he knows how she likes her coffee._

 _He stands there for a moment, sipping his own cup, impeccably dressed as usual, before sliding open the glass door to the small porch in the back yard. He motions with his head for her to follow him and, still silent as the grave, she does._

 _Her movements are robotic when she sits down on the swinging bench, and her blond companion, in an uncharacteristic show of tender concern, helps tuck her blanket more securely around her shoulders. As he sits down beside her with an innate grace that she will never be able to emulate, she draws her knees up to her chest. He uses his feet to get the swing moving, and they sit there for an indeterminable amount of time, listening to the soothing sounds of dawn._

 _It is not until the sky fades from indigo to pink that Draco puts his arm around her to bring her closer, and she realizes with a sort of detachment that her face is drenched with salty tears, and they run unchecked down her throat to soak through the neck of her sleep shirt. She realizes that it had once been Ron's, before she'd stolen it from him with the argument that it was getting too ratty to wear out in public. In all honesty, she'd just wanted something to wear that smelled like him._

 _An unexpected knot of feeling gets lodged in her throat, choking her, before it escapes her mouth in a strangled sob. She begins to cry so hard that she no longer makes any noise, other than shallow, hiccupping breaths and a sort of uncomfortable, high pitched whine. Her entire torso shakes with the stark physicality of her sobs. She pitches sideways, sliding down into Draco's lap. He strokes her hair back from her face as her tears and snot soak through the leg of his fine grey trousers._

 _He does not "ssh" her, nor does he offer platitudes that many people use to make one another feel better. He does not speak at all, does not even hum or clear his throat or sneeze or swallow. He is just silent, one hand pressing firmly against her shoulder while the other rests on her head, his thumb rubbing in a steady, soothing rhythm over the soft hair at her temple._

 _Minutes or hours or days later, she doesn't know, her eyes begin to dry and her cries quiet and the only things left are the soft sniffs of her runny nose and the slight quiver of her chin._

 _Mid-November is unusually cold this year, already down to below two degrees, and the chill drives them back inside. They run into Pansy at the bottom of the stairs, and after the dark-haired girl makes her own cup of coffee, she accompanies the two back upstairs to Hermione's bedroom. The three of them crawl into bed, each with a different book._

 _They stay there for the rest of the day. They are only interrupted twice: once by Narcissa Malfoy, who brings in a large tray of brunch items for the three unlikely companions, and later by Harry, who comes in and sits on the floor on Hermione's side of the bed. He does not read, or eat – only sits; and Hermione reaches down and lays a hand on his shoulder. He lays his opposite hand over hers, his palm warm against her wrist, and cries the still, silent tears of a man lost._

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oooo

Hermione pushed Draco in his wheelchair to the hallway in front of the Great Hall, and then helped him out of his wheelchair – in all honesty, he didn't seem to really need her help. He was unsteady and a little weak, but not an invalid. So she merely walked with her hand around his elbow and opened the doors for him.

Upon entering, a hush fell over the student body. Whispers pervaded the room as she walked Draco down the stairs and towards the Gryffindor table. He held his head high, adopting his most regal "Heir of the Houses of Malfoy and Black" pose, and she stifled a giggle. He reached over and pinched her forearm, well aware that she was laughing at his expense.

Like the fine young men they were, Ignatius and Lyall stood upon their approach and made room for the two of them on the side of the table that would put their backs to the wall. Lyall grabbed Draco's other arm to steady him as he swung his leg over the bench, much to Draco's irritation. Draco hated needing assistance of any kind, especially from people he didn't know.

They sat down, conscious of all the stares they were getting but ignoring them anyway, and plates appeared before them. Draco nearly groaned in relief. "Oh thank _Merlin_ for food," he said, spooning a heap of mash potatoes onto his plate.

"Don't overdo it, Mister Mallery," Sabrina said from across the table, effectively catching his attention. How he had not noticed her before, Hermione did not know, but she smiled as he suddenly became aware of not just Sabrina, but a whole other host of pretty women that were staring at him in rapture. "You've been getting nutrition through magical means for the last week and a half, and too much real food might not sit well. Try to take it easy."

Draco smiled at her. "I'll keep that in mind, Miss…?"

"Snowborn," she said, reaching her hand over the table. "You can call me Sabrina."

He took her hand, turned it, and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. To Sabrina's credit, the blush that suffused her cheeks was light and gone as quick as it had come. "It's a pleasure, Sabrina. Please, call me Draco."

Hermione nudged him. "Sabrina was my first friend here, Draco," she said, smiling at the pretty brunette. "She showed me around. These are Lyall Lupin and Ignatius Prewett," she continued, motioning to the two men that bracketed Hermione and Draco. "Don't trust them with anything, they're total troublemakers. A lot like the twins were," she said, her tone a tad wistful.

Draco grinned at her. "Sounds like a party." He shook both of their hands as they grumbled about Hermione's unfair description of them but smiled back at them nonetheless, humor and mischief in their eyes.

"This is Kat Agory," Hermione continued, gesturing to Kat, who sat across the table next to Sabrina. She tried hard not to let her eyes wander to the little burn on the side of the girl's neck. Kat shook his hand firmly. "And Zuri Rubright," she said, gesturing to the girl of Indian descent, "and, of course, Iris Fawley."

If Draco was stunned by Iris' beauty, he did not let on. In fact, his eyes kept wandering past Sabrina more often than not. Of course, only Hermione noticed, simply because she knew him, and knew him well.

She even knew about his fear of snakes…though she'd never bring it up. As a Slytherin, he would be mortified if anyone knew of his aversion to the mascot of his own house. So she would continue to let him operate under the delusion that his particular fear was private.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," Iris gushed, seemingly put out when he did not kiss her hand like he had Sabrina's. Truthfully, he was too far away to do so comfortably. Still, she hid her disappointment better than a flake like Lavender Brown would have. "We've heard a lot about your and Hermione's adventures in China. We've all been so anxious for you to wake up so we could meet you. How are you feeling?"

Draco shrugged. "I've definitely been better, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be." Hermione had told him that she hadn't revealed the dire state of his health to anyone except Tom Riddle in a display of epic weakness, so he did not mention it. Undoubtedly Tom or one of the teachers would let it leak eventually; the rumor mill at Hogwarts did not only exist within the student body – it extended to the staff as well. But for now, they decided not to draw too much attention to his grim diagnosis. "I'm glad for the anomaly in space that granted our travel here to Hogwarts; I doubt I would be alive if it weren't for the efforts of Madam Soranus and the rest of the staff. I'm thankful to be in a safe place; and I'm grateful to all of you for making Hermione feel welcome. She's told me all about each of you and how wonderful you've been to her."

They all look pleased and bashful at the praise. Sabrina flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Well, it's not as if Hermione is a burden or anything. We've found that we quite enjoy her company."

"And people from other houses apparently feel the same way," Zuri mused, looking back sideways towards the entry doors. "Head Boy, Hermione, coming your way."

Hermione froze, feeling her heart skitter. She took a sip of water from her flask and turned away from the direction of the door to lean in towards Draco. She got her mouth next to his ear and spoke lowly so that no one else could hear. "And here we go. The fun begins."

She turned back toward the table and smiled mildly, noting the various looks on her housemates' faces. Some of them were looking at Draco, some at Hermione, and some were turned towards the direction of the doors, where she knew Tom Riddle was coming ever closer. She purposefully remained facing forward, taking another sip of water and smiling tightly at Sabrina, who was looking from Hermione to Draco with thinly veined speculation.

"Hermione."

Iris, though usually far more calm and collected than say, Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil, looked like she was going to hyperventilate. Hermione slowly twisted her torso to see Tom, Edmond and Avery standing behind them.

"Tom," she said, pasting a courteous smile onto her face even as her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribcage. "How are you this evening?"

"I'm well," he replied, his lips quirking at the forced politeness in her tone. "And you?"

She shrugged. "I'm well, as well," she said, smirking. Her gaze slid over to Edmond. "Hello, Lestrange." The slim, dark boy nodded at her, his eyes flashing with uneasiness. She could not help the thrill she felt knowing that he was afraid of her. "Hello, Avery," she said, looking at Conan. She gave him a small, secret smile that he returned. "How are you holding up since this morning?"

Conan shrugged. "I think I'll manage," he said dryly, his lips quirking. "How's your hand?"

Tom reached forward as if on cue, and, as if by habit, Hermione laid her right hand in his without pause. He peeled back the fresh gauze and frowned. "This doesn't look any better, Hermione."

"It's been less than twelve hours, Tom," she replied, amused with his show of concern. "I'll live, I promise you. It'll be all healed up within a couple of weeks." She removed her hand from his and reattached the gauze. "It was caused by Dark magic, not boiling water," she said teasingly. "It's not going to just go away that easily."

She could tell by the look in his eyes that he desperately wanted to know just what sort of spell it had been and how he could replicate it. "Indeed. Now, Hermione, I've spent a week just itching to meet your friend, and it's just positively rude of you not to introduce me," he said in a teasing sort of imperious tone. He looked over to Draco. "Tom Riddle," he said smoothly, holding his hand out.

Draco stood – more swiftly than Hermione would have thought possible in his condition – and shook the other man's hand firmly. Hermione could not help but notice that Tom was about an inch taller than Draco.

"Draco Mallery – it's a pleasure," he returned, his voice a silky, sultry drawl that had Riddle's jaw ticking. It was the tone Slytherins sometimes took with their enemies, and it obviously resonated with Tom. Hermione was equal parts nervous and proud of her best friend. Draco sure did have a skill for subtlety and manipulation, and it had not gone unrecognized by the Heir of Slytherin.

Their clasped hands withdrew from each other and Draco turned and sat back down. Hermione noticed how his legs shook a bit before becoming steady again. She knew she was probably not the only one who noticed.

She looked up, and was once again trapped in the clear, cold depths of Tom Riddle's eyes. "Draco should be up for coming to classes next week, so I'm sure you'll have more of a chance to get to know each other then."

"I look forward to it," Draco said, still twisted slightly in his seat, watching them from his peripheral vision.

"As do I," Tom said, his voice smooth and pleasant and just a bit tight to Hermione's keen ears. He stared down into her eyes, looming over her from his standing position. "Hermione." He absently took her uninjured hand and lifted it briefly to his mouth, brushing his lips over her scarred knuckles in a butterfly's caress. The skin seemed to tingle when he let her hand go. "Mallery," he said, nodding. He looked around at the rest of the table's nearby occupants, his eyes sliding over them dispassionately. "You all have a lovely evening, and enjoy your trips to Hogsmeade tomorrow."

Suddenly, as if they'd all been in a trance, her classmates cleared their throats and smiled and stuttered out friendly concessions and good-byes. The only one that wasn't falling all over himself to bow and scrape after Riddle was Lyall; he merely looked after the Head Boy with narrowed, suspicious eyes. After Tom and his goons were gone, they all just looked at her.

She cleared her throat. "Nice guy, Riddle," she said impassively, once again gulping down water and hoping that no one could see how her hand wavered.

Ignatius cleared his throat. "Yeah. He's a good guy. People really look up to him."

Hermione believed it.

"He…seems to like you," Lyall said. "I mean, he's never really encouraged anyone to call him by his first name, you know?" he continued, still looking uneasy. Hermione had noticed that Dumbledore was not the only person unconvinced of Riddle's act. It seemed Lyall didn't drink the Kool-Aid either, so to speak.

All of the girls still seemed at a loss for words, looking between her and the Slytherin table in awed silence.

"Seems like a pleasant sort of guy," Draco said shortly, his voice underlined with the kind of tone that just screamed _"We are going to have a major discussion about this at a later time, young lady."_ "Hermione – chicken?" he asked, holding out a platter for her to take. She pursed her lips and grabbed it.

* * *

oooo

"Oh. My. _God!_ Hermione!"

Hermione sighed as she sat down on her bed. Draco had not been up for talking – in fact, he'd barely been able to stay awake while she pushed him back to the hospital wing – so she had made sure he was comfortable and settled in for sleep before she came back to the Gryffindor dorms to face the music.

"First he's walking you to class, then he goes and actively _looks_ for you during lunch period, then he carries your _bag,_ and sits next to you in class, kissing your hand and letting him call you by _name_ and Merlin's left testicle, Hermione, he never lets _anyone_ do that!"

Kat was ranting, pacing back in forth in their room in her pajamas, watching with heated eyes as Hermione began to change for bed. Iris was sitting on her bed, looking dejected, and Sabrina was twirling a piece of long, dark hair around her finger, watching Hermione with interest.

Zuri merely sat on her bed and smirked devilishly. "Tom and Hermione, sittin' in a tree, K-I-"

"Oh enough already," Hermione said sternly, glaring at Zuri. The smile on the girl's dark face faltered. "Riddle is merely…interested in my experiences living in the Orient," she lied quickly, feeling desperate. "He's very eager to learn all he can about the world, and he's expressed interest in speaking with me about it. He's quite the intellectual, and so am I, so I can relate. That's all there is to it."

Sabrina hummed. "Sure, Hermione."

Hermione bristled.

"You're so lucky," Iris said, pouting. "He's only looked at me like one time, and then it was like I didn't exist."

"I could try to mention you in conversation next time I see him?" Hermione suggested. Iris perked up. "I'll see what I can do, Iris. I'm not lying or being coy when I say that I'm just not interested," she said.

She wondered why it tasted so much like a lie.

"How could you not be interested, Hermione?" Kat said, throwing her hands up. "He's _gorgeous._ "

"He's not my type," Hermione said, thinking of a certain fresh-faced, bright-eyed redhead. "I mean yes, he's attractive, and very smart and rather pleasant, but I'm just not…I'm not…" She swallowed, feeling a dull ache building behind her eyes.

"There's someone else," Sabrina said knowingly, staring at her perceptively.

Hermione didn't bother with the buttons of her shirt, just stripped it off over her head, clutching at the ring and locket that hung on a chain around her neck. "There _was_ someone else."

The room was silent. Iris cleared her throat. "You were yelling out a name in your sleep last night."

"It was probably his," Hermione said uneasily, shucking her skirt and bra and pulling her nightgown over her head. "I don't want to talk about it, if that's all right."

"Right, of course, I'm sorry," Iris said, looking contrite. "So…you're really not interested in Riddle?"

"He can be…good company," Hermione replied, hating herself for meaning it. She cinched her robe around her waste, shivering. "And he intrigues me. And yes, he's handsome as the devil. But no. I have too many things to worry about right now, and I'm still not ready to move on. I'm not sure I ever will be."

"You must have really loved him," Zuri said softly. "This Ron fellow."

Hearing someone else say his name was like a sucker punch to the gut. She did not respond, only dug around in her trunk for her toothbrush. Turning her back on her roommates, she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she came back out, Zuri had already closed her curtains, Iris was out in the hallway chatting to Suzanne Sapworthy, and Sabrina and Kat were muttering in hushed tones about something. Hermione slipped into bed and pulled her curtains around her, blocking out the chill of the castle. No one spoke to her for the rest of the night, and soon she was sound asleep.

* * *

oooo

"Then what happened?"

"I ran back down to the lake with Dumbledore, Soranus and Slughorn."

"And what exactly did you find when you got back?"

"Right as I came over the hill, she cast the killing curse at the blond. The other one was already dead."

Tom leaned forward in his seat. Avery sat across from him in his suite; it was just the two of them. The rest of his Knights had been sent back to the Slytherin dorms for the evening. "Show me."

Conan settled back into his armchair and stared into Tom's eyes dispassionately. Tom soared into the younger man's brain with ease.

 _Two men stumble out from the trees, looking confused, covered in sweat and blood and dirt. Tom looks on through Conan's eyes. One of them is perhaps in his early fifties, with dark hair and watery blue eyes, and the other is younger and has shoulders wider than anyone Tom has ever seen before. He is gravely wounded. They both wear black robes, and metal masks hang from around their necks._

 _Tom watches on as Conan stands to the side. Hermione scrambles to her feet, holding her wand and staring at the two men that have just spotted her._

" _Granger?" the younger of the two says, looking delirious. His bright eyes are glazed with pain._

" _Hello, Thorfinn," Granger says. Her face is impassive and her eyes cold, but Tom notices that she looks less than certain. She turns next to the brunette. "Hello, Walden. Fancy seeing the two of you here." Tom wonders why she is on a first name basis with two of her enemies…unless Thorfinn and Walden are last names? But that seems odd…no, definitely not._

" _Where are we, Granger?" the one called Thorfinn asks. Walden lowers his wounded comrade down against a tree and shifts his wand in his hand, glaring at Hermione with blatant hatred._

" _Hogwarts," she bites out, responding to the blonde's question but looking at his older colleague, tapping her wand against her thigh. Tom looks down, watching through Conan's eyes as she cups his elbow with her hand. The warmth of her skin is oddly conspicuous, and he wonders if the fever she had upon her arrival a week and a half ago has not abated. His young Knight's body is tense. "Conan, would you be a dear and go fetch a professor for me? Quick like," she says, the order soft and posed as a question but still unmistakably an order._

 _When Conan lurches forward, the older man speaks. "I don't think the boy's going anywhere, Granger. Are you, boy?"_

 _Avery does not move or say anything, but in a split second, faster than Tom can even blink, Hermione is sending a surprisingly potent shock of magic towards Walden and knocks him off of his feet, sending him flying through the air away from Conan. As the man takes the time to halt his momentum and right himself, she shoves the junior Knight of Walpurgis in the back. "Go, Avery, run. Run!"_

 _The sixth year immediately obeys, Tom notices. She has a commanding presence, and Tom wonders if she is in a position of leadership in the war in China, though that would be odd for someone so young; however, he still doesn't know how old she is. Avery draws his wand and dashes away towards the school. Tom watches in rapture as Avery turns just as Hermione sends a nonverbal_ _ **Protego**_ _at his back to block the stunning spell Walden shoots at Conan's retreating form._

 _Tom is forced to follow Avery as he travels up to the school in search of an adult, though he wishes he could stay and see the rest of the duel play out. Instead, he watches through Conan's eyes as he runs through the castle doors, nearly getting bowled over by a frantic Draco Mallery, dressed only in his hospital issue white drawstring pants. His body is sculpted and pale and covered in scars, and he is running faster than anyone Tom has ever seen._

 _The next few seconds pass in a blur as Dumbledore and Madam Soranus jog past, followed by a huffing Slughorn, and Conan flags them down and leads them on the path that Mallery has just taken. Conan is young and sprightly, and he gets back to the lake ahead of everyone else, just in time to overhear the tail end of the conversation –_

"– _still owe me anything, Granger," Thorfinn was saying with a grimace. His companion lies dead on the ground, neck twisted, and Mallery is heaving, sitting on the sand, glaring at the hulking blond. "You repaid that favor. I'm simply appealing to the decency in your heart. I know my cousin wouldn't grant me the same boon."_

 _Hermione looks torn, but there is a sort of cold reality in her eyes. "Thorfinn –"_

" _Do it, Granger!" the man demands, his handsome face contorted in pain and misery. "Just do it! Now!"_

 _Tom notices how her eyes flutter closed, but also notices how she doesn't hesitate to bring her wand up. "_ _ **Avada Kedavra**_ _."_

 _The certainty with which she says it should not surprise Tom, by now, but it does nonetheless. He does not doubt that she has killed one hundred and seventy-seven people – it is written across her eyes as they snap open and stare at her handiwork. Her expression is one that is commonly adopted by those used to such traumas: exhaustion, pain, and some measure of apathy. Despite this, he can tell that it bothers her. Whether it is killing in general that bothers her, or if it's just the death of this particular man, Tom cannot know – he has no point of reference, nothing to compare it to. Either way, he respects her all the more for it; it's an easy thing to murder if you feel nothing. Tom imagines it is a far more difficult thing to do for someone with a more developed sense of empathy._

 _She drops the wand – not her wand, he suddenly realizes, but another's – and he notices the tremor in her hands before she shakes them out, once, twice, and then they are steady again. She winces at the awful burn on her hand, glaring at it stubbornly as if she can just will it to go away; for some reason, this makes Tom smile. What an interesting girl, this Hermione Granger._

" _What happened here?"_

 _Tom is frustrated when Slughorn forces Conan to turn away from the scene just as Dumbledore begins to speak, but smiles when Conan uses the excuse of an untied shoe to bend down and linger just a few seconds longer. Ah. Now he remembers why he wanted Conan in his Knights. Clever._

" _These two men are – were – people we knew from…back home," he hears Hermione say quietly. "They attacked Mister Avery and me while –"_

 _And then Conan is being led from the scene, and Tom pulls himself out of the memory._

"And you say that you simply happened upon her by chance out by the lake this morning?" Tom said, taking a sip of his tea.

Avery nodded. His tea was untouched. "As you know, I always walk in the mornings. Apparently Granger likes to run."

"And do you like to run, Conan?" Tom asked.

The brunette smiled – a rare thing, just a small quirk of the lips and a flash of those normally dead blue eyes. "I could learn to like it, I imagine."

"See that you do. Miss Granger might be amenable to a running partner in the mornings, if it's something she does regularly." He ran a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble there. "Find out. Worm your way in, if you can. From our short interaction this evening at dinner, I can tell she has an interest in you."

Conan's eyebrow rose slightly, but he was otherwise unaffected. Tom hated that he couldn't read the slim, freckled boy; he was the only one of his followers whose expressions he was not yet able to interpret – probably because any expressions were few and far between. "An interest, My Lord? In what way, exactly?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't quite know yet. I'm still trying to get a read on her. Is there anything you noticed about her that is worth mentioning to me?"

"There isn't a whole lot of our interaction that you haven't seen," Avery replied evenly. "She's quick with a wand, she's observant, and her manner of dealing with people is very abrupt, unless she's trying to schmooze her way out of or into something. I don't think she's naturally extroverted or good with people – I think it's a learned skill."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Interesting observation. Anything else?"

Avery frowned. "She knows that you've taken an interest. She's…wary of you. But I think you already know that."

Tom steepled his fingers, staring into his fireplace as it roared and crackled, filling the small space of his suite with warmth and light. "Yes, I do know that. I'm still trying to figure out why, exactly." He sighed. "You may go."

Conan stood, and gave a shallow bow. "Thank you, My Lord."

When the portrait clicked closed, Tom let his head fall back against the couch. "You, Miss Granger," he said to the silence of the empty room. "Are quite the enigma." He thought of Mallery, of the cold anger in those eyes, of how firm his handshake had been and the downright _frostbite_ that he'd greeted Tom with; about the smooth drawl of his highly cultured voice and the aristocratic set of his nose. "And so, I believe, is your friend."

He stood, stretching, and began to unbutton his shirt, heading up towards his room. _What an exciting puzzle to solve,_ he thought to himself. _But where to start?_

* * *

oooo

Grindelwald sat staring at the letter, his eyes narrowed. He pictured one of his Hogwarts informants, brown-haired and bright-eyed and all-too-willing to do his bidding for a place by his side.

… _Dumbledore has taken an interest in the two newcomers, as has Tom Riddle. Riddle seems to be somewhat enamored of the Granger girl, though I think it's because she intrigues him more than anything else. He's even asked his connections at the Ministry to try to get a hold of her records. I'll let you know when he is successful. As I've said before, he doesn't often show interest in people, so the fact that he's been paying so much attention to her to her is odd, at best, and she seems to be warming up to him._

 _The boy, Draco Mallery, woke up today. Apparently a couple of old foes wandered through some sort of portal from China this morning, and he conveniently snapped out of his coma just in time to save his companion's life. You probably already know much of this from your informants inside the Ministry, but Dumbledore and Dippet have been meeting with the Minister to discuss increased security measures for the school._

"Dippet," Gellert mumbled under his breath, snorting in amusement. "Bloody old fool."

 _Hermione Granger also broke her wand this morning, and is in possession of a new wand – my sources say she picked it up in Africa a few months ago. I've seen her use it, and knowing how you feel about magical tools and artifacts I think it might be worth trying to get your hands on it. She and Mallery would be useful tools to have in your arsenal as well – they are soldiers, the both of them, and it is obvious they don't belong here at school. I haven't seen Mallery cast yet, but when Granger performs magic it is obvious she has serious potential. She performed stupendously well on her placement tests – she is Riddle's academic equal, easily, and she nearly scored as high as Dumbledore did. I suspect she is holding back to keep from having too many eyes on her; she doesn't seem to enjoy being the center of attention, and it isn't natural for her, but she's having a hard time fitting in._

 _Riddle is as cryptic as ever, as is Dumbledore. I'm finding it difficult to get closer to either one of them, but I'll keep trying, as you requested. Granger has proven easier to learn about, but now with the addition of Mallery, who seems a bit more wary, I fear I'll have lost my chance to get close to her. It's hard to know. Your other informant here has had better luck than me in getting to know her better, as she has more access to her._

Gellert sat back in his chair. News had indeed reached him about this new pair of students that had magically appeared in Hogwarts last week. Normally a couple of teenagers wouldn't warrant his attention, but, like Tom Riddle, they seemed to be a tad bit _different_ than most. And Gellert liked to keep an eye on anything that might either be useful to him – or that might be a threat to him. Tom Riddle could be both. So, perhaps, could these two strangers from the Orient.

Perhaps he should, like Riddle, appeal to his connections and see what he could find out about the two. If he knew Dumbledore at all, his old friend would be hoarding the pair, trying to cultivate them. For Dumbledore, like Grindelwald, liked to have control over those he deemed worthy. Control. One thing that they had in common. One of the things that had brought them together in the first place.

Gellert could still not help but feel some regret when it came to Albus. If only things had worked out differently.

But they hadn't. Dumbledore had chosen his path, and Grindelwald had chosen his, and there was no turning back.

He picked up a quill and penned a quick response. _Surely, despite being a bit unusual, the girl is susceptible to the attentions of attractive men? If Riddle can do it, so can you._

Folding it and putting it in an unmarked envelope, he tied it to his owl's leg. "You know what to do, Lilith," he said, stroking her feathers. With a gentle hoot, the dark-eyed barred owl left her perch and swooped out the open window, headed northwest towards Scotland.

oooo

* * *

 **Short chapter, I know, but the next one will be up soon. Also, there may or may not be another Tomione, two Dramiones, and a Scorose in the works. I make no promises on how soon they will be posted, because I don't have a whole lot written yet. Only one of the Dramiones and the Scorose have been started. So yeah.**

 **Many hugs and kisses and well-wishes.**

 **Giraffe :)**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks to those of you that have stuck with me! I love you all.**

 **This is the last chapter that I have written for now. Hopefully the muse will continue to strike me and chapter 15 will be up next week, but I've got a lot going on for the holidays, so it might be two weeks before I post again. Sorry.**

* * *

oooo

When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. -Maya Angelou

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. –Vladimir Nabokov

God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live. –Stephen King

A strange game  
Where the only winning move is to engage  
Who are, who are we to  
Who are, who are we to  
Who are, who are we to stay away?  
\- "No Guilt In Pleasure" by MSMR

* * *

oooo

 _Monday, February 12, 2001_

 _Bolivia_

" _Oh honestly, Malfoy, would that be such a bad thing?"_

 _Draco shrugs. "I don't know, Granger – exposing our world to muggles might turn out just fine. We might all get along, and everything will work out, and we'll all ride off into the sunset together."_

" _Or," Harry counters, slashing away foliage with his wand as they wander through the Bolivian jungle, "they might flip their lid and drop an atomic bomb on London and every other place known to house wizarding communities."_

 _Hermione scoffs. "Come on, Harry."_

 _He raises his eyebrow. "Remember, muggles raised me. I didn't have a very good experience. I know they aren't all like the Dursleys, but…" Unspoken words ring out loud after he finishes:_ _ **A lot of them are like your parents were, kind and accepting and so thirsty for any kind of knowledge that they would tolerate almost anything just to see whatever they could of the world.**_ _But he doesn't say it out loud, because he knows mentioning her parents will upset her._

" _Human nature is something to both rejoice in and fear," Draco says, so much wiser now that he's been through hell; he is no longer the snotty, prejudiced brat he used to be, back when the world was softer and kinder. The war has hardened him along with the rest of them, and his maturity no longer surprises her. "Doesn't matter if we're wizardkind or muggle, Granger – we're dangerous creatures. Especially when it comes to mass terror. Individuals alone are capable of heinous deeds, but it's when you get into the mob mentality that things get really dangerous. When it comes to the Statute of Secrecy it's not necessarily about what's right – it's about what's safe."_

" _Like the movie Men In Black, Hermione – the one that came out a couple of years ago that we went to see in the muggle theater?" Harry says._

" _Yeah, I remember," she says with a fond smile. "Funny."_

" _Agent K mentions that every day there's something that threatens the earth – and the only thing that keeps people safe and happy is that they aren't aware of it," her bespectacled friend continues. "That rings true. Ignorance really is bliss – maybe not on an individual level, but when it comes to thousands and millions and billions of people, sometimes it's best just to keep them unaware."_

 _Hermione stops, and they both stop with her, and she looks between the two of them. "I know that the two of you have been sort-of friends for a while now, but I don't think I've ever seen you agree on anything this readily. It's…weird."_

 _Draco sneers at her, and Harry scowls. "We're not friends, Hermione, and it's just common sense."_

 _She grins. "Riiiight. Sure. Not friends – got it." She sniggers to herself as they both roll their eyes and glare at each other, and she shakes her head in amusement and moves forward._

 _Suddenly, Hermione hits a magical ward of some sort, and the shock is so electrifying that she is blown backwards several feet, and it feels like her entire body has just been thrust into a giant wall outlet, and she lands hard on the thick vegetation that lines the forest floor. Her heart stops._

" _HERMIONE!"_

 _That is all she hears before things go black._

 _She drifts into darkness, but all of a sudden there is a warm, soft light, and a hand grasps her own, and she feels the sweet breath of her beloved on her cheek as he says her name._

" _Hermione."_

 _When she opens her eyes, Ron crouches over her, and Ginny and Hermione's parents stand behind him, looking down on her with gentle smiles. Hermione smiles up at them in return, feeling peaceful, so excited that she is here with them, in this quiet, warm place, and –_

 _Before she can say anything, they are fading from her vision. Ron's fingers slip through hers, and she reaches for them again, but he is already fading away. He smiles at her. "See you later, 'Mione."_

" _No," she murmurs. "No, Ron, no no no no NO!"_

 _She gasps for breath, blinking rapidly as the harsh sunlight of the tropics glares down at her through the thick foliage. She coughs, heaving in a lungful of air. Gentle hands stroke her hairline; another pair holds her waist. Draco and Harry are there, and Draco is breathing hard, pink in the face, and Harry looks like he's been crying._

" _I saw them," she says, her voice hoarse. "I saw them. I…I saw Ron. I saw Ginny, and my parents –"_

" _You were_ _ **dead,**_ _Hermione," Draco says through gritted teeth. He looks_ _ **furious.**_ _"Your heart actually_ _ **stopped.**_ _Are you fucking stupid? Potter's the one wearing the ward protective armor – that's why he's supposed to go first! Goddamn it, Granger!"_

 _She laughs breathlessly, unfazed by his anger, still reeling from the disbelief. "I saw them, Harry," she says again. "They were all there. They were all_ _ **real.**_ _We…touched hands."_

 _Draco is swearing still, muttering to himself and looking like a nutter, but Harry just stares at her, his gaze peaceful. "I always knew," he says quietly. "After I saw Dumbledore at King's Cross when I died in the Dark Forest during the Battle of Hogwarts, I knew." A tear falls from his eye. "I can't wait to see them again."_

 _She lies there for a while, her chest hurting from the abuse of CPR after multiple_ _ **Renervates**_ _didn't do the trick, and Harry strokes her hair. Eventually Draco just sits down on a large root, staring at his boots, looking sullen._

 _Later Harry tells her about how Draco had thrown himself down upon her prone body, immediately searching for a heartbeat and, upon finding none, trying desperately to_ _ **Renervate**_ _her before beginning CPR. He had ended up fracturing part of her sternum and one rib – he had pounded away at her lifeless body for nearly four minutes._

 _Sometimes Hermione cannot help but wish he'd been unsuccessful._

* * *

oooo

Draco definitely wouldn't be up for running with her, so Hermione rose before dawn, dressed comfortably and headed out to the lake, zipping up her jacket to fight off the chill. She stopped by the kitchens for a little bit of toast and raw beef, first, shoving them in her backpack, and then commenced her jog.

The perimeter of the Black Lake was about five miles around, and she was finished in about forty-five minutes. It was just after seven when she reached a part of the lake that was lined with rocks, and she sat down upon them, looking down over the edge of the short cliff to the surface of the lake ten feet below. From here she could see the sandy shore where Rowle and Macnair had attacked her yesterday, abutted by trees; she watched it in her peripheral vision, just in case.

She continued to peer into the surface of the water as she broke out the toast she'd snatched from the kitchens, and smiled with nostalgia as she saw a big, luminescent eye suddenly loom up beneath the surface, surrounded by slick, smooth burgundy skin.

"Nice to know you still have your taste for toast in this timeline, too," she muttered, taking a bite of the buttery bread and then dangling the rest of the slice over the edge of the rock.

A great tentacle as thick as a man's body rose up from the water, sprinkling her with moisture. She giggled as, with great care, the giant squid used the very end of his tentacle, tapered down to the width of her arm, to pluck the piece of toast from her hand. Another tentacle came up as the first one traveled down to pop the bread into his beak-like mouth, and she tickled the spaces between his suckers, giggling as he shuddered in what might be construed as laughter. Grinning, she gave him her second piece, and he immediately brought up a third tentacle for another slice.

"Come now, Godric, I only have three pieces. You ought to pace yourself," she teased.

"So you've named him, have you?"

She screamed and whirled, drawing her wand and hurling out a fireball that had Conan Avery falling to the ground to avoid its path.

She clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Oh Merlin, Avery, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, scrambling over to him as he returned to his standing position. "Did I hurt you?"

She was somewhat surprised to feel that her concern was real. After their interaction yesterday, Hermione had become oddly fond of the younger wizard. She went over to where he stood, taking him by the arms and scanning his body for burns.

He looked unfazed, if not a bit amused. "I'm fine, Granger, though if I'd been half a second later in dodging I'd be in the hospital wing with third-degree burns. Now I know never to sneak up on you again. Next time I'll announce my presence from a safer distance."

She deflated, feeling sheepish. "I apologize. What are you doing out here so early?"

"Well, I thought you might like some company on your run, but it looks like you already finished up."

She raised her eyebrows. "You run?"

He shrugged. "No, but Riddle thought it might be a good idea to try to get you to warm up to me. He seems to underestimate just how transparent we all are to you. I don't think he's got the full grasp on just how perceptive you are in regards to other people. But, I figured it would be a good chance to get started on the Legilimency lessons without incurring his suspicion."

She smiled. "Good thinking. I'm glad he suggested it; I was wondering what sort of excuse we would have to come up with to fool him – now I don't have to worry about it anymore."

She went back over to the edge of the rocky cliff, shooing the Giant Squid away as he rooted through her pack, bypassing the little sack of raw meat in favor of finding more toast. She pushed his tentacle away and got the last piece of toast for him, placing it gently on one of his suckers.

"That's all I have this morning, Godric; I'll bring you some more tomorrow, all right?" She rubbed the smooth red skin of his tentacle one more time and then he retreated back to the depths of the lake with his prize.

She turned back to Conan. "I didn't know the Squid was that friendly," he said. "I knew he was harmless, but I didn't know he was so domestic."

Hermione wanted to say that he really wasn't harmless; that before he'd been killed by Voldemort she'd seen him snatch several werewolves and Death Eaters and squeeze them to death, thrashing them against the surface of the water until their bodies were little more than mangled skins – like lemons that had been squeezed of all their juice, only the peels and some of the pulp left – but she didn't mention it.

"Well, I learned he likes toast," she said nonchalantly. "I brought some out for me to munch on after my run, and there he was, looking expectant, so I thought I'd share. And I thought Godric was a fitting name, given his color." She picked up her bag. "Here, come with me."

Wordlessly, he followed her into the woods. They walked for a moment before coming to a stop.

"You know, the Forbidden Forest is named that for a reason," he said, raising one eyebrow. "And yet you waltz right on in as if there's nothing to be afraid of – as if there aren't countless monsters just waiting for the right opportunity."

She snorted. "Most of the things that live in this forest live _deep_ in the forest, and are nocturnal. Really the only threats I have to worry about in the daylight are centaurs, trolls, any bad-tempered hippogriffs and the acromantula that escaped after it killed that student two years ago. Assuming it stuck around. Their natural environment is in the tropics, namely Southeast Asia, so it might not have stayed. Too cold." She knew very well that Aragog had stayed, and that Hagrid would start as the assistant Groundskeeper in the spring under Valentine Ogg, and that in a handful of years, in 1967, he would bring Mosag in as a mate for his beloved acromantula and they would start a colony together. But she wouldn't mention that, either.

He hummed, whether in agreement or skepticism.

"Besides," she said, shrugging. "I learned long ago that following the rules to a T can be rather counterproductive. And it's more fun to bend them a bit," she finished with a grin.

He smirked. "So what exactly are we doing here?" he said, gesturing to the clearing they were in.

She smiled and pulled out the little bag of beef. "You'll see," she said. "Give it a minute – sometimes thestrals are a bit shy."

"You mentioned those yesterday, but I can't remember having studied them in COMC," he said with a frown. "What are they?"

"The reason they aren't often spoken about – and why they aren't a part of the Hogwarts curriculum, apparently – is because they aren't seen by most. Only those who have seen death can see them. To everyone else, they're invisible. What do you think moves the carriages up to the school from the train every year?"

"Magic," he answered, shrugging. "I just thought they moved on their own."

"Look," she said, pointing at a space in between two trees.

He peered through the trees. "Oh."

A huge mare, one of the ones she'd seen yesterday – recognizable by the long scar that slashed across her withers – approached them, leading a young foal behind her; a little braver than yesterday because now she recognized Hermione. The foal was the same little filly that had so bravely drawn near to Riddle yesterday afternoon.

"They love raw meat of any kind," Hermione said, pulling out the bag.

"Do they let you touch them?" Conan asked, watching on with curiosity.

Hermione walked up to the mare, holding out a piece of meat that the leathery beast swiftly gobbled up. She patted the thestral on the neck, once again marveling at its size. It was definitely one of the biggest ones she'd seen, standing probably at just over twenty hands.

"They're gentle beasts, despite their sinister appearance," she said softly. "They get a bad rep as bearers of bad luck because they are associated with death; because people fear death."

"Most people fear death," Conan said, grabbing a piece of meat from the bag and letting the little foal take it from his palm.

"That's because they don't know what comes after," Hermione said. "I do. It's nothing to fear – rather something to be anticipated, I think."

More thestrals appeared through the trees, and Avery froze as the young stallion with the punctured wing came up behind him and gummed the fabric of the neckline of his shirt. He reached back to pat it on the nose, and then handed it some beef.

"How do you know? I mean, how do you know for sure?" he asked, frowning.

She smiled wistfully, closing her eyes, letting a thestral snuffle at her open palm, slick with the juices of the raw beef. "I had an experience a couple of years ago," she answered. "I ran into a nasty combination of wards, and was electrocuted." She turned to look at him. "My heart stopped beating for three minutes and thirty-six seconds."

"You died," he verified, blatant interest shining in his eyes.

"I died," she confirmed, nodding. "And I saw…" She takes a shuddering breath. "Oblivion. Peace. Warmth, and light, and there were people there – friends and family that I'd lost." She sighed, absently fiddling with the chain around her neck. "When my friends resuscitated me, I wanted nothing more than to have been able to stay. I was even angry with them for a bit, before I realized how stupid and ungrateful I was being." She caught his eyes. "Try reading my mind, and I'll show you what I saw. I'll withdraw my Occlumency shields for this first time, and project the memory so you can find it easily, just so you can get the feel of it."

"Okay," he said, following her lead as she sat down on a group of roots, scattering the rest of the meat around on the ground for the thestrals to gobble up. He sat cross-legged on the dirt floor of the forest, looking up at her with those unnervingly blank eyes. "So I just…cast the spell?"

"You know the incantation," she said, nodding. "You'll want to start out using your wand – it takes a couple of years of practice to get to where you can do it wandlessly and nonverbally." She cracked her neck. "Make sure you maintain eye contact. And remember: reading the mind is not like reading the pages of a book. You typically aren't going to find someone's thoughts just etched into the brain where you can reach in and pluck them out at will. The mind is intricate and multifaceted and a confusing, jumbled mess for beginning Legilimens. So even though I will try to make it easy for you this first time, and will endeavor to lead you through the parts of my memories I want you to focus in on, don't be disappointed if you get lost or overwhelmed. That's normal."

He nodded, looking determined. "All right. Are you ready?"

"I'm always ready," Hermione said with a wink. "Go for it."

He inhaled deeply, staring into her eyes. _"Legilimens."_

She twitched uncomfortably as his consciousness pushed into her open mind, and she struggled not to immediately throw her walls up or go on the offensive, as she'd been trained. Instead she took a deep breath and relaxed, trying to create a path in her mind for him to follow.

Though Conan Avery was generally a calm, steady sort, and the tendrils of his psyche reflected this, he still deviated from the path and ended up jerking around in a tight, dark space, trapped between the memory she wanted him to see and the shield she'd put up around the rest of her mind. When he began to panic, her Occlumency shields pushed forward to nudge him out of her brain.

Avery wiped sweat from his brow, and his hands were shaking. "That was…I…"

"That was a good start," she said encouragingly. "You started out steady and confident. Your first mistake was to panic when you got derailed. If you panic, you can end up trapped. The best thing you can do in a situation like that is to try to stay calm and pull back." She inclined her head towards him. "Try again."

He did. She shuddered as the crude, unpracticed strands of his intellect surged into her unprotected mind again, and this time he moved slower and was more focused on staying on the path she laid out for him. He found the memory, and fell into it.

She did not let him see the first part of the memory, where they had been talking and walking through the Amazonian jungle; the memory started when she'd struck the ward, and the sound of Harry screaming her name, and then her experience in the darkness with Ron and the rest of her fallen friends and family.

When he got to the part where she'd woken up, Hermione guided Conan out of her brain and back into his own.

He leaned back on his elbows. Sweat trickled down his temples. "This is harder than Occlumency."

She shrugged. "Occlumency is more natural for most people. It just involves protecting your own mind, while Legilimency puts you in enemy territory."

"Like an army defending a stronghold against a siege, versus an army doing the attacking," he said.

"Exactly," she said, nodding, smiling at the comparison. Clever. "Naturally, it takes less energy to learn to defend a secure position than it does to invade unfamiliar turf."

"And yet, you said yesterday morning that while your Occlumency skills are decent, you are far better at Legilimency," Avery said, watching her with muted blue eyes. "Your Gryffindor nature, perhaps? Brave, daring, prone to a bit of recklessness?"

Her lips curved up in a genuine smirk. It seemed Conan Avery was more than worth her time. He was sharper than most people gave him credit for, and that was extremely useful. He did not draw attention to himself like she did. While he was certainly not ugly – in fact, his face had a rather pleasing quality about it that she couldn't quite put her finger on – he was not eye-catching like Draco and her. And while he was skilled magically, he was not extraordinary. He was not particularly athletic, though he was lean, and he was not particularly social, either. Avery was extraordinary at two things, that she could see: Occlumency, and being unnoticeable. He was sharp as a tack, and she found him to be rather likeable, despite his lack of affect.

"Perhaps," she answered quietly. "Sometimes I struggle with patience. I learned to use Legilimency not only as my offense, but as my defense as well. I found that I didn't have the patience or the strength to uphold my Occlumency walls – especially under torture – so I started using Legilimency to catch my enemies off guard. I stumbled upon it quite by accident."

"How?" Conan asked curiously, picking up a stick and dragging it through the dirt. A thestral walked by, catching its wing on the top of his head by accident, and he grunted and put a hand up to his forehead, rubbing at the shallow scratch that had appeared up against his hairline.

"I had already started to learn Occlumency from one of my professors, but he was killed before we could finish our training. His godson – my friend Draco, who you met last night – endeavored to continue his teachings," she mused, smiling when she thought of Draco's exasperation when trying to teach her anything. "It was hell for him. I'm a know-it-all by nature, and, for the first time since potions class in school, he was _better_ at something than I was, and we got under each other's skin constantly. One day we were in lessons, and he got in my head, and I had just had a fight with my h…" She cleared her throat. "I'd just had a fight with my friend. And I was so angry that I just shoved him right back out of my head…and just kept going. And I realized that most people, when they're trying to get into your head, are so busy attacking that they forget to defend. So I honed this technique until I could perform it flawlessly. And it's served me _extremely_ well over the years." She stared at Conan, looking him right in the eye. "I'm telling you this in confidence, so you can better understand the mind magics." She paused. "If I find that you have repeated this information to anyone other than myself or Draco, I'll be very displeased."

Avery's eye twitched. "I…understand."

"Good," she said quietly; coldly. "If you ever need any clarification on what might happen to you if you _do_ betray my confidence, I'll be happy to remind you of what happened to two of my enemies yesterday morning, in case you've forgotten."

"I haven't forgotten," he replied smoothly. No uneasiness showed in his eyes – only cold reality. "You obviously have no compunctions about killing people. I know this. Most of the other students haven't caught on yet."

Hermione shrugged, scraping at the dirt with her fingers; the feeling of the cool, damp earth underneath her fingernails was comforting, grounding. "Most of them won't catch on. War is an ugly, _senseless_ thing, Avery. It warps people." She looked back up at her unlikely companion. "Do you fear me, Conan?"

Conan shrugged. "Yes, and no."

"How so?"

"Well," he said, looking skyward, "I fear you in the same way I fear Riddle: you're powerful, and you've killed before and have no qualms about using deadly force. However, and correct me if I'm wrong – you don't operate with malicious intent. That's what makes you different. Riddle is driven by power and greed and darkness. You seem to have a great concern for your friend, Mallery, and though I can tell that being popular isn't exactly natural for you, you seem to care for your new friends here, even if you don't really relate to them. So my thought is that as long as I remain on your good side, and don't pose a threat to the people you care about, then I'm safe."

Hermione stood, and offered him her hand. With a split second's hesitation, he took it, and allowed her to help pull him to his feet. "I'm no saint," she said quietly, dabbing at the scrape on his head with the sleeve of her shirt. "But I'm not so far gone that I use people mindlessly for my own gains, with no thought or care to how I might hurt them. You're safe with me, Avery, as long as I can be safe with you. But I don't trust you, despite having shared some things with you, and I probably never fully will – and I _definitely_ don't trust Riddle. If you ever feel like you are caught between a rock and a hard place with the two of us, you must tell me, and you must figure out who's side you want to be on. I won't be angry if it isn't mine. I just like to know."

He squinted at her. "Do you intend to make him your enemy?" he asked. "I do not think that would be wise."

"It's not my intention, no – if I can stay on good terms with Riddle, I will," she said, not entirely honestly. A big part of her still wanted to kill him – and she was seriously considering it, especially since she was in an alternate timeline and didn't have to worry about any sort of complicated paradoxes that might throw her for a loop. Still, she didn't know what the world would look like _without_ Voldemort, and wasn't so sure she wanted to find out.

Better the enemy you know…

"However, I'm not one of his pawns," she continued, narrowing her eyes. "I am not in the habit of being used. I intrigue him now, because he's not used to being challenged by anything or anyone. But I suspect that it'll get old really quickly, and the novelty will wear off, and then things might get a little strained. I'm prepared for any eventuality, Avery. And I understand you've known Tom for six years. You've known me for just over twenty-four hours. I am under no delusions that we're friends, and that, if pressured, you wouldn't stand by him."

Conan cocked his head. "Tom Riddle doesn't own me, Granger. He likes to think he does – and he has…leverage…over me. And I like him. He's powerful, and innovative, and he's someone that could change the wizarding world forever."

"The question is, will he change it for the better?" Hermione asked, beginning to walk back towards the lake. "Blood prejudice might seem like it makes some sense now, but it is insidious and destructive and it leads only to bloodshed. Tell me, Conan, would you like to be in a war?"

Conan shook his head. "I don't think so."

"You don't think so?" she asked with a scoff. "Here," she said, stopping in between two big trees and taking him by the shoulders. He flinched at her touch, but did not pull away. "Let me show you something. Go on – try it again. The same as last time; I'll guide you."

Conan looked slightly reluctant, but pulled out his wand, looked in her eyes, and whispered, _"Legilimens."_ He was instantly transported to one of her more violent memories.

 _Colors whirl around them, and then go still. Hermione has brought him to the streets of wizarding Kathmandu, and she makes him watch as Evan Rosier, Cassius Warrington and a Chinese Death Eater sympathizer, someone Hermione has come to know as Jin, round the corner, headed straight for her and her team._

 _Lesley Toddington and Matthew Kettletoft, two Hufflepuffs from the year above her in school, are the first to die. Lesley is hit by the Entrail-Expelling curse, and her midsection is ripped open violently, much of her blood hitting Hermione's face, neck and chest. The girl falls to the ground, screaming in death, and Hermione slips on all the blood while trying to wipe it from her eyes. She is lucky – her slip has kept her from getting blown apart by Warrington's_ _ **Confringo**_ _, which hits Kettletoft, blowing him into a thousand fiery pieces instantaneously. Hermione scrabbles for her wand, hissing as a slicing hex from Jin skims the back of her thigh._

" _You missed, you bastard!" she shouts, grabbing a hold of her wand and firing off the first three spells that come to mind –_ _ **Avada Kedavra, Expulso**_ _and_ _ **Sanguinulcus.**_ _The third one finds its mark, and Jin drops to his knees, his wand skittering away from him as his blood begins to heat. She grins in satisfaction as Warrington and Rosier both duck behind a building as she turns her aim to them – Rosier sends an_ _ **Expulso**_ _back, and she blocks it while scrambling to her feet, sending his spell careening into the front of a bookstore, where a group of innocent bystanders stand huddled together, terrified. They scream and duck as the front door explodes._

 _Suddenly Cho Chang and Terrence Higgs are there at her side and she senses Draco's magical aura nearby as well, and Rosier and Warrington are vanishing with a crack as more of her people arrive. Jin lies writhing on the ground, in the throes of a very painful death. His skin is flushed bright purplish-red, and he is screaming the scream of the tortured. She ignores him, and turns her attention to Lesley, who is still alive._

 _The girl's breath is shallow and unsteady, and when Hermione crouches down and lifts her wand to try to heal her as best she can, Lesley reaches up and puts a hand on her wrist._

" _Don't, Hermione," she croaks, blood dribbling past her lips. "Just let me go."_

 _Hermione holds Lesley's hand as the dying girl stares up at the bright sunny sky and the light fades from her green eyes. She draws her last breath, and goes still._

 _Hermione feels Terrence pull her up from where she has been kneeling in the blood and entrails of her friend. "Come on, Granger," he says, his voice as quiet and steady as always. "We need to get out of here. They'll be back with reinforcements."_

 _Hermione sighs, and they turn on the spot, apparating away back to their camp outside the city._

Conan pulled out of her mind and stumbled backwards, wincing as he hit a tree. He was breathing heavily.

"Good job," Hermione said with a tight smile. "That was well executed. Did you enjoy the memory?"

Conan's eyes narrowed. "Is that a trick question?"

"Not at all, Conan," she said, cracking her knuckles. "I'm simply trying to get you to understand what being in a war means." She cocks her head. "I know you don't necessarily buy into all the blood mania, and that you follow Tom because you admire him and he has something to hold over your head, but that is what your future will look like in a few years if Tom has his way. Could you point your wand at a muggleborn first-year and strike them down in cold blood?"

Conan peered at her curiously. "I could, but I don't want to. Seems senseless. Tom wouldn't do anything like that."

She gave him a disparaging smile. "Perhaps not. But things have a way of escalating very quickly, and soon enough it is out of your hands. Tell me, would your friend Dolohov hesitate to kill a muggleborn first year? Don't lie," she added, her voice turning harsh.

Avery swallowed. "No, he wouldn't."

"And Rosier?"

Conan shook his head, looking somewhat dejected. "Probably not."

"Tom is a charismatic, powerful man," she said quietly. "Soon enough, if he has his way, he'll gather more followers to him and begin to do Merlin knows what with wizarding society." She tucked her hand into the crook of Conan's elbow, forcing him into the role of escort as they resumed their journey back up to the school. "A leader is often bound by his supporters' whims. Tom might run the show, but he'll need to keep his followers happy. Besides, it doesn't matter how charismatic someone is – there is no such thing as peaceful apartheid. Eventually the oppressed get tired of being oppressed, and rise up. And beating them back down usually requires the use of violence. That's how a war gets really ugly. So perhaps Tom wishes for a nice segregated society where wizardkind rules, and the purebloods are at the top of the ladder. But even if he succeeds in making it that way by peaceful means, it won't stay that way, and he'll have to break the peace to keep his fragile system in place."

"Are you ever going to tell me how you know so much about Tom Riddle?" Avery asked wearily.

She shrugged. "I listen to and observe the people around me very, very carefully," she answered. "I've spent a lifetime immersed in conflict, most of it revolving around prejudice and politics. Compared to the complexities of the Chinese wizarding world, Hogwarts is like an open book." She paused and leaned down to pull her sock up in the back where it had ridden down. She hated these old fashioned tennis shoes. "Besides, my survival for the past several years has hinged upon me being able to make snap judgments. And my gut rarely leads me wrong. I might not have the whole story with Riddle, but it's not that hard to figure out the bulk of it."

Avery was silent, simply walked arm in arm with her up to the school. When they arrived, most students were still in bed. It was a Saturday, after all, and just after eight. The Fat Friar nodded at them as he floated past, and Professor Burke looked at them with an inscrutable expression as he stalked down the hallway towards Great Hall.

"Join me for breakfast?" Hermione asked, patting Avery on the arm.

He shrugged. "I've never sat with someone from a different house before. Gryffindor table or Slytherin?"

She grinned. "Your classmates are far less forgiving than mine, so I don't want to put you in a situation where they might torture you mercilessly for sitting at the lions' table."

Conan smirked. "Slytherin it is then. Which is probably where you should have ended up in the first place – but I suppose the sorting hat knows what it's doing better than me."

Hermione let go of his arm to flounce down the steps, going to sit at the end of the Slytherin table closest to the doors. There weren't many students in the hall yet, but those that did populate the tables stared at her in disbelief.

Conan sat down across from her. "Am I going to become a celebrity now simply because I've been seen associating with you?" he asked with a smirk. Hermione supposed it was as close to being teased by him she might ever get.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

"He's right, you know," a sleepy voice said from behind her. She turned. Thoros Nott swung his leg over the bench and plopped down next to her. He was dressed for the day in slacks and a forest green sweater that made his blue-green eyes seem especially penetrating. His robes were charcoal grey to match his pants, and he left them hanging open casually. He was the picture of stylish elegance, and Hermione hated him just a little for being so put together. She remembered Theodore's father from her time. He was a prejudiced, bitter old man that was horrible to his only son. Not at all like the pleasant, handsome fellow that was currently sitting next to her, buttering his toast and smelling like vetiver.

"Right about what?" she asked, scowling.

"You're a bit famous now, you know?" Nott said, looking at her sideways. "The arrival of you and your friend is the most interesting thing that's happened here at Hogwarts in two years. People are bored. You're a break in the routine. There's even talk at the Ministry about you two."

Hermione groaned and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. "I just want to live in peace," she moaned.

"Yes, but peace is so _boring,"_ came a voice from across the table. Rosier sat next to Avery, slinging a meaty arm around the slimmer boy's shoulders. Avery quickly threw it off, his eyes glinting coolly. His dislike for his older housemate was palpable, which was odd, considering how little emotion Conan ever showed, whether positive or negative.

"Spoken like someone who's never been at the wrong end of someone else's wand," she sneered, curling her lip in disdain. "Has it been nice, tucked away in your little castle, safe and sound and able to sleep in a nice soft bed at night, Rosier? Don't talk to me about boring," she continued, scowling darkly down at her eggs. "Boredom is _delightful._ Totally underrated."

Rosier stared at her sullenly, but did not respond. Nott piped up in his place. "You have a valid point, Granger…but don't tell me you don't miss the action at all."

Hermione shrugged. "Sure. Fine. I'm a bit of an adrenaline whore," she said, and smirked internally as the three boys all flinched at her "unladylike" language. "Only because I'm used to it. But I don't _miss_ being at war. I miss Christmas, and actual _meals,_ and _bathing_ regularly. These are things that are worth missing, that I can finally settle back into now that I'm here. I miss my friends and family that have died. But I don't miss being tortured under the _Cruciatus_ , and I don't miss throwing the killing curse around like candy, and I don't miss watching my friends explode into little tiny pieces which I then have to clean out of my hair at the end of the day."

Her nostrils flared as they all stared at her with varying expressions, ranging from unease (Nott) to bland interest (Avery) to thinly veiled disgust and irritation (Rosier).

She deflated. "Sorry," she mumbled, stabbing a piece of sausage with her fork meanly. "I'm still feeling a bit high strung from yesterday morning. I apologize for my… _affect."_

Nott cleared his throat. "That's…all right. Perhaps we deserved to have some of our own ignorance thrust back at us."

"Wise words, Thoros. Perhaps you'll all be less careless about what you say from now on – and whom you say it around."

Hermione had to bodily force herself not to freeze in her seat as Tom Riddle came and sat down on her other side. She brought the mutilated piece of sausage up to her mouth and ate it, swallowing and dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. "Good morning, Tom," she said cheerily. "Sleep well?"

He hummed. "Very. And yourself?" _God._ His voice was like…wine, and chocolate, and silk and honey and _poison._

She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling hot as she realized that the outside of his right thigh was within an inch of her left one. "Like a baby," she replied lightly.

Edmond Lestrange sat across from Tom and wrinkled his nose. "You know, my sister-in-law just had her first child three months ago – a son, Rodolphus. Babies don't always sleep all that well. They wake up at the most inopportune times and hardly ever sleep through the night."

Hermione's lips quirked, even as her hand twitched at hearing Rodolphus' name. "Hence why I used the analogy as a descriptor for my own nightly experience, Lestrange."

"Oh." Edmond flushed. "Er, makes sense, then."

She felt rather than heard Tom's deprecating chuckle. "Well done, Edmond."

The slight brunette scowled. To put him at ease, she sent him a subtle wink from across the table. She was trying to infiltrate the Knights of Walpurgis, wasn't she? Get some of them on her side, cultivate them as allies? She'd started with Avery – Edmond and Nott were next, and then maybe Mulciber.

She'd leave Rosier and Dolohov right where they were. She didn't want to touch either of them with a ten-foot pole.

"So, Hogsmeade," she said conversationally. "Is it every Saturday that we're allowed to go?"

"Only if you have signed permission from parents," Tom said, his eyes flashing in annoyance. It reminded her that only last year did the school start allowing him to go to Hogsmeade because of his prefect status.

She hummed. "And what about those of us that don't have parents?" she asked.

His eyebrow rose. "They don't get to go. Of course, you and Mallery might be an exception, because of your…unusual circumstances," he answered. "You'll have to ask Professor Dumbledore. As the Deputy Headmaster, he's in charge of Hogsmeade trips."

"What happened to your parents?" Rosier asked abruptly, chewing a mouthful of eggs.

She cocked her head to the side, staring at him, feeling the anger swell in her heart. "They were murdered," she said coldly, feeling her blood heat and pound through her veins. "I'd really prefer not to talk about it."

Rosier just stared at her, unfazed. "Are you a Mudblood then? Granger isn't a wizarding name."

She grinned humorlessly. "A half-blood," she answered. "My father was one of those filthy muggles you blood purists seem to hate so much. As for my name…" She shrugged. "I'm aware there aren't many people in the school that are muggleborn or that have muggle names, but surely I'm not the only one, am I?" She turned to Tom. "What do you think, Riddle?"

She saw the ferocious anger burn in his eyes, and she smirked cruelly.

"You're right, of course," he said silkily, his voice low and dangerous. "There are a handful of people here that are in possession of muggle surnames. It's…unfortunate, but forgivable."

"Unless you're a Mudblood," Rosier blurted out.

Tom jerked his head imperceptibly to the side, looking at Rosier with narrowed eyes. "Come now, Gavin. Let's not be so crude in front of our guest." He smiled tightly at Hermione, his eyes looking especially black when they were shielded from the streaming morning sunlight that came through the windows at his back. "It's apparent that she doesn't hold to certain beliefs, and that is to be respected."

Hermione snorted. "Sorry to disappoint, but I just don't think eradication of billions of people is a good solution for much of anything, dirty blood or not."

"Who said anything about eradication?" Tom said, frowning.

Hermione cocked her head. "Sorry, perhaps I've just become cynical over time. I've spent the last few years of my life watching people get killed because of their blood status, or lack thereof, and it gets a bit old, if I'm being honest." She turned and met Rosier's mean blue eyes. "Ignorance and bigotry are two things that I find nearly intolerable." She stood from her seat and cracked her knuckles. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I have an appointment." She looked at Conan and winked. "Tomorrow morning then, Conan?"

He bowed his head in acquiescence. "I'll be there."

She smiled at him, and fixed the rest of them with a cool smirk. "You all have a good day in Hogsmeade. Give my regards to Dolohov and Mulciber, when they join you." She fixed Tom with a shark-like grin, feeling grim satisfaction as the skin around his eyes tightened. "Especially Mulciber."

She smiled to herself as she turned and walked off, ignoring the many sets of eyes that followed her. When she reached the foyer and turned left to follow the first floor corridor, she paused as she heard footsteps come up behind her.

She was not expecting the forcefulness behind Tom's grip as he grabbed her by the forearm and swung her around to face him. She inhaled sharply as his short fingernails dug into the tender skin of her arm where she'd rolled her sleeves up to eat. She glared up into his face. His eyes were full of cold, terrifying fury.

"What do you know about my parentage?" he demanded harshly, pulling her into a shadowy alcove.

She stared, her rage mounting. "Unhand me," she said, her voice tightly controlled. "Now."

The tone of her voice must have resonated with him, and, with brief hesitation, he released his grip on her arm. He still stood close. Far too close for comfort. He smelled like…black pepper and sandalwood, and his breath was hot on her face and smelled like the bergamot from his Earl Grey tea.

"Tell me what you know."

She laid a hand on his chest and pushed him back a step. He moved back from her, albeit reluctantly. "I know that Riddle isn't a wizarding name," she said quietly, her eyes never leaving his. She watched him closely, her heart thudding in her chest. It was not fear – it was excitement.

She had not been kidding about being something of an adrenaline junkie. She did not miss war, but she missed the rush of action.

"And?" he said tightly, his eyes narrowed.

"And like I said yesterday, you should be really careful with that glass house of yours, Tom," she replied, cocking her head. "I'm not going to out you in front of your peers – though I'm sure the smarter ones of the bunch realize that you're a half-blood and just willfully ignore it. They can recognize power when they see it, and if you've already let them in on the little secret of your mother's heritage…"

He slammed her against the wall by her shoulders, and she grunted in pain and shock before throwing her head back against the wall and laughing.

"Dumbledore told you," he said, his eyes narrowed.

His hands were delightfully large and long-fingered, and they were warm and firm against her shoulders. She grabbed his wrists, and Fawkes' magic flared to life with her anger, making her hands glow red-orange and burning Tom's pale skin. He hissed in pain and pulled back from her, rubbing his wrists.

"Dumbledore doesn't trust _me,"_ she said incredulously, feeling her hair crackle with her magic. "And the feeling is quite mutual, I can assure you. I know things because _I pay attention,_ Riddle, and you wouldn't believe the sorts of things you can find out when you pay attention. As I said yesterday, I'm not going to go around spouting your secrets. I have no reason to. However, I don't appreciate your little goons making nasty comments about my heritage just because they were unfortunate enough to be born from inbreeding and raised by delusional families who think that blood actually _matters,"_ she scoffed. "I doubt you would appreciate it if you were on the receiving end of their narrow-mindedness, either. I mean honestly, Tom, how do you stand it?" she asked, throwing her hands up in the air in genuine exasperation; genuine, because this man, however hateful, was _too fucking smart for this shit_. "The utter stupidity of it?"

Tom's jaw clenched tightly, and he was still rubbing at his wrists, glaring at her. "The utter stupidity of what?"

"Come now, Tom," she said with a cool smile, "you're much too brilliant to truly hold on to the ideal that excessive, fanatical inbreeding alone intrinsically begets power. I mean, look at me," she continued, gesturing to herself. "My father was a muggle, albeit a brilliant one, my mother a painfully average witch, and yet I can intellectually outwit and magically out-perform most everybody in this school, with a handful of exceptions. Then look at the Gaunt family. If your mother had ended up fancying her brother instead of the local muggle lord with the pretty face, and they'd had a child together, you wouldn't be as you are now. You'd be little more than a squib, physically misshapen and magically unimpressive, and you know it. Being a pureblood means little more than being an inbred, bigoted, magically impotent excuse for a wizard. I'm glad I'm not one. I'm glad you aren't either, because you'd be _so_ much less interesting."

"You know nothing about anything," he hissed, bringing his face down to hover over hers. "Don't talk like you know anything about me."

"I know all sorts of things about you, Tom Riddle," she said, her tone one of dark promise. Oh, the things she could do to ruin his life. If only he knew. "I won't get into them now, because like I said earlier, I have an appointment. I would encourage you to try to get your little minions to be a bit more _restrained_ in their conversation, lest they end up making fools out of themselves again; and I rather think you should try to avoid the subject, considering that you might want to keep their noses out of _your_ family business, hm?"

She reached up and patted his shoulder, smirking mischievously. His fists were clenched down by his sides, and he looked at her through a thick film of black hatred. Red sparked in his eyes, gone in a flash.

"And Tom?" she said softly as she pulled her hand back and stepped away from him.

"Yes, _Hermione?"_ he asked, glaring at her.

She ran her fingers over the quickly bruising skin of her forearm. "If you ever manhandle me like that again without my permission, I will flay the skin from your bones." She wiped her hot, sweaty palms against her pants and smiled at him. "Have a good day."

She ducked out of the alcove they'd ended up in, rounded the corner, ducked underneath a tapestry that hid a secret passageway, cast a spell that rendered the heavy fabric see-through from her side, and watched in satisfaction as Riddle strode around the corner and stopped in his tracks, his eyes narrowed when he couldn't spot her.

"I know you're here, Hermione," he said through gritted teeth. "We _will_ continue this conversation later." He paused, and his voice quieted. "And I would be very careful about whose toes you care to tread upon, little lioness. Very careful."

Hermione felt a cold shiver of both fear and anticipation travel down her spine. He turned on his heel and strolled away, whistling an eerie tune. She watched as his long, lean form disappeared around the corner from which they came, no doubt going back to finish his breakfast. She shuddered. Bastard.

She held the cards, though. She had the upper hand, for the moment at least. How long that would last, she didn't know, but for now, if gave her some comfort. She could ruin Tom Riddle at any time. She could kill him and destroy his horcruxes.

So why hadn't she already? What was holding her back? He _deserved_ to _die._

Sighing, she retrieved her bag from the inside of her bra and enlarged it, and then pulled out the invisibility cloak. Swinging it around her shoulders, she stepped out from behind the tapestry and immediately set off for Dumbledore's office.

* * *

oooo

Dumbledore's office door was wide open, and she divested herself of her cloak and stuffed it back in the bag before entering. Dumbledore turned at the sound.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, grimacing. She rubbed at the quickly forming hand-shaped bruise on her forearm; with little crescent moon nail indents to match. "I got…sidetracked."

He smiled at her. "No worries. We still have plenty of time."

"So where are we going?" she asked him.

He looked thoughtful. "Well, I suppose we'll have to leave campus for something like this. I don't want to risk anyone seeing, and I don't want to damage anything."

"How about the Room of Requirement?"

Dumbledore looked at her. "You know about the Come-and-Go Room?"

She grinned at him. "Like I've said before, Albus, there isn't a whole lot I _don't_ know."

He shook his head and sighed. "I hope that doesn't come back to bite you. Or me, for that matter."

She bowed her head, feeling properly chastised. "Me too."

"Shall we?" he suggested. She nodded, and they set off for the seventh floor with quick strides. Remarkably, they only passed two students and Apollyon Pringle, the caretaker, a tall string-bean of a man with greasy black hair tied back into a ponytail who looked rather like Snape and Filch had managed to have a child together. He sneered at her and nodded respectfully at Dumbledore as he passed them in the halls.

Soon enough, they were at the little used part of the seventh floor, and she strode back and forth three times, watching with fondness as the familiar door appeared. She smiled, her heart fluttering with the ache of nostalgia.

Dumbledore observed her – ever watchful, with those suspicious, twinkling blue eyes – and followed her in when she opened the door. "I've only had the privilege of accessing the Room of Requirement one time, two years ago," Dumbledore murmured. "I desperately needed a lavatory, and imagine my surprise when one just appeared beside me. After I left, though, I could never figure out how to get it back."

"A friend of mine learned about it from a house-elf that we knew rather well," she said. "The Room is a fickle thing. It's always worked for me, but I've known it to refuse people before. Plus, you have to ask it in the right way, by walking back and forth three times and asking for what you want."

"Curious," Dumbledore replied.

"You know, it just occurred to me," Hermione said conversationally, looking around in awe. They were in an outdoor stadium of some sort. The Room had really outdone itself this time. "You could be bringing me in here to kill me. No one would ever find my body."

Dumbledore looked at her and chuckled. "I was thinking the exact same thing regarding you, my dear Hermione," he said, peering at her curiously from over the rims of his half-moon spectacles. "It saddens me that we cannot trust each other. Speaking of trust," he continued, stepping forward into the grassy arena and looking around in wonder, "you lied to me under veritaserum."

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't think it would be wise to reveal Malfoy's true familial name. I'm still not sure I like you knowing. But that was still when I wasn't sure how my actions here would affect the future that I came from. Now that I know that the future I came from is on a completely different dimension, I don't have the same worries."

"Still, not many people can lie under veritaserum and get away with it," he said, sitting down in a chair the Room had just provided for him. Hermione felt one pop up behind her, too, and sat, mirroring him.

"Most of us learned," Hermione said, shrugging. "You could never know if you might be captured, and it was too dangerous to have everything fall apart because of a potion. We developed the skill. It's basically just Occlumency."

The professor nodded. "Wise," he said, his voice serious. "Were you lying about anything else?"

Hermione frowned. "You asked me if I wished to harm anyone in Hogwarts." She looked up to the sky, watching as a wispy cloud floated past. "I'm still trying to decide if I want to kill Tom Riddle or not."

"What's stopping you?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward in his chair. "I don't condone murder as a cause of action, mind you, but I am curious."

Hermione slumped. Under his penetrating stare she felt like a child again. "He's…gotten under my skin. And it isn't fair to kill someone for something that an alternate timeline version of himself did. That seems a bit…backwards. Besides, if this truly is a parallel dimension, then this Tom Riddle could be different than the one I knew in my world. Something as small as a single synapse in the brain that could be connected where it wasn't before. I can't kill him knowing that he might turn out to be relatively harmless, or even _important_ to the future of the wizarding world in a positive way."

"Do you think that this version of Tom Riddle is harmless?" Albus asked, cocking his head to the side.

She scoffed, a smile tugging at her lips, thinking of his two horcruxes and the way he'd loomed over her threateningly just a few minutes ago. "I _know_ he's not. Still. Hypothetically."

Dumbledore chuckled, shaking his head. "I will pretend to remain disinterested because you asked me to stay out of your way, but just know that I am seething inside, Hermione. Please, tread carefully with Tom. You may know him fairly well in 2002, but I know him pretty well _right now._ He is not someone to be trifled with. I am also worried that his eyes have started to seek you out when he enters a room, and that is concerning for a whole host of reasons. I fear he is trying to add you to his collection."

"Much like you are trying to collect me, Albus?" she asked quietly. He did not respond. "Don't worry. I'm muggleborn, remember?" she said, her voice heavy with realism. "My heritage is quite literally carved into the skin of my arm. Just because it's been charmed not to be noticed doesn't mean that _I_ don't still know it's there. I can feel it," she said, rubbing at the raised scar on the inside of her arm. "I will never forget where I come from, Professor, and being part of a group that literally _despises_ my kind isn't high up on my to-do list, all right? I am going to try to tear up their little gang a bit, yes, and I might be forced to spend more time with them than I would care too – but I will never be one of them. My blood won't allow it, and neither will Draco."

He bowed his head in acquiescence. "Very well. I'll drop the subject – for now, at least. Shall we get started?"

She cleared her throat. "Sure. I'm a bit nervous. What exactly are you going to have me doing?"

"As you know, phoenixes have many powers," he said. "Can you name them?"

Hermione immediately settled into her eager student mind, pleased to be able to answer a question. "They can bear extremely heavy loads in flight, able to carry several grown men if needed. Their tears have extraordinary healing powers – although they are not given freely, only to those who the phoenix itself genuinely cares for. It's why they aren't used in potions, as phoenixes only shed tears in dire situations for those that are important to them." She tucked a piece of loose hair back into her ponytail. "They have magical song, known to give courage to those pure of heart and strike fear into evildoers. They occasionally cough up 'phoenix flint', which when worn are said to bring warmth to those in cold, high places. Their feathers are extraordinarily powerful, of course, particularly the tail feathers, being used in wands. They can vanish and reappear at will, bypassing most wards like house-elves can, though no one knows exactly how far they can travel in this manner, as very few people have ever been privy to it."

"I think it's safe to say they can travel however far they'd like, Hermione," Dumbledore said, amused. "Think to your current situation."

Hermione slapped a hand to her forehead, feeling ridiculous. "Of course. Silly me."

"What else?" he asked.

"They are immune to the stare of the basilisk," she said uncomfortably, looking for any signs that Dumbledore might suspect that there was one such creature lurking in the bowels of the school. He did not even twitch. Of course, for all of his brilliance, he had not thought of the possibility of a basilisk until the bare-bones truth had been thrust quite literally under his nose in the form of a venom-stained diary. _She_ had been the one to figure out what manner of creature resided in the Chamber of Secrets. "They can be hit with the killing curse and survive, and, of course, most notably, they catch fire and then rise anew from the ashes, which allows them to live for hundreds of years."

"Thousands!" Dumbledore corrected, looking eager. "Thousands of years, Miss Granger. Do you know how to tell a phoenix's age?"

She shook her head.

"The blue feathers on the underside of their tails, hidden unless they are in flight – every one feather represents a hundred burning days," he said excitedly, leaning forward in his chair. "Do you know how often a phoenix dies and is reborn?"

"Every three years?" she ventured, unsure. "Unless hit with the killing curse."

"Correct, Hermione," he said, pleased. "Do you know how many blue tail feathers Fawkes possesses?"

Hermione shook her head. "Please, tell me."

His eyes twinkled. "Four."

"Four!" she exclaimed animatedly. "That puts him at over twelve hundred years old! That's incredible!"

Dumbledore nodded his head in agreement. "Yes. Fawkes is one of the oldest living creatures on the planet, perhaps only outdone by other members of his kin."

Hermione scowled. "Don't forget about the kraken," she said darkly, feeling her left eyelid twitch as it always did when she thought of particularly terrifying memories. Hermione was not afraid of much anymore, but damn if the fucking kraken hadn't struck the deepest, most septic sort of fear into her heart.

Dumbledore stared at her. "The kraken? I beg your pardon?"

Hermione crossed her arms and jiggled her leg. "Oh yes. It's very much alive, and very, very large. I wouldn't recommend diving off the coast of Iceland."

"You must be pulling my leg," Albus said, looking bemused.

Hermione shook her head. "No, I'm not at all kidding. Draco's lucky he didn't scar. That thing got a tentacle around him, and I thought for sure I'd lost him. It was awful. One of the scariest experiences of my life. But we didn't lose anyone that day, so I don't count it among my worst memories."

"Fascinating," he said softly, staring at her. "What did it look like?"

"Like you might expect," she said, shrugging. "Over a hundred feet long; twelve tentacles, not eight; rows of razor sharp teeth; four eyes, two on each side of the head. A nasty blackish-brown color, and slimy." She let out a shaky breath. "It's been around in legend for hundreds of years, and the thing was positively _prehistoric._ There's no way that it hasn't been around since the dinosaurs."

"I feel like I must report this to someone," the older wizard breathed. "It needs to be researched."

"I understand that feeling, Albus, I really do," Hermione said, grimacing. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a more avid academic. However, I _strongly_ recommend leaving that thing right where it is. I disturbed its rest quite by accident, and I can imagine how pissed it might be if someone were to actually go looking for it. Our wands had limited effect. Eventually we were able to get to a point where we could apparate away, but the boat went down. Also, who knows if it's there now, in this time? It could be vacationing in Bermuda."

Albus looked rather crestfallen. "Very funny, Miss Granger."

She grinned and held her hands out in supplication. "You are more than welcome to drop a hint to someone, if you feel so inclined. However, if it were someone you would rather live to a ripe old age, then I would tell them to proceed knowing that they will probably die a terrible death. If Draco and I, and our friend Neville, didn't have the instincts we had – if we were just average wizards without a care in the world – we never would have made it. However, we were just quick enough to be able to escape, and we were damned lucky at that."

He sighed and pulled off his glasses to polish them with the sleeve of his robes – lurid yellow, today, much to her eyes' displeasure. "I will…keep such knowledge to myself. For now. I make no promises."

Hermione smiled. "Best not to make promises you aren't sure you can keep," she said teasingly. "Now, shall we return to the task at hand? I apologize for distracting you."

Dumbledore scoffed. "Sometimes, dear girl, distractions are worth the interruption they cause. A kraken! Who would have thought?" He cleared his throat. "But let us return to business. We were discussing phoenixes, and their regenerative properties."

"Professor," she said, stroking the back of her burned hand through the gauze, forcing herself to take the pain, "if phoenixes can survive the killing curse and still regenerate and be born again, does that apply for all deaths? Say one was to hit an airplane. You know, one of those bombers used in the muggle war. If one died that way, or was hit with like a _Confringo_ or something – would the effect be the same? Would it burst into flame only to return whole again, or would it actually die for good?"

Dumbledore twirled the end of his beard around his hand, reaching forward with the other one and lifting her left hand from where it irritated the damaged skin of her right. She let him place it gently down on the arm of the chair where it could do no more harm, and felt fondness in her heart for the frustratingly enigmatic, manipulative yet kind-hearted man she'd grown up admiring.

"That is a question I'm afraid I don't know the answer to, Hermione," he replied, looking far more serious than he had a moment ago. "I've never heard of any such cases. Phoenixes are so rarely domesticated, that I'm afraid the only exposure I've ever really had to them is through Fawkes and what little literature I can find on them."

"How did you find out about how old they get?" Hermione asked curiously.

"A vampire friend of mine has studied phoenixes in her spare time for very many years. She's catalogued such things. She just celebrated his 407th birthday," he answered, clucking his tongue in amazement. "Quite impressive, really."

"Who better to do a long-term study than someone who doesn't age?" Hermione asked, shrugging. "Convenient. So, where should we start?"

"First, I should like to just test out the song theory, if you don't mind," he said.

Hermione glared at him. "I don't sing, professor. I can hum, if you like, and maybe whistle, but I don't sing. I have few musical talents, if you can even call them that to begin with. I can't even play a recorder."

"Just humor me this one time, Hermione," he encouraged. "I promise you I won't laugh if it's as dreadful as you say."

She flushed and fiddled with the sleeve of her shirt. All – all right. Okay." She took a deep breath.

" _Why do birds suddenly appear_

 _Every time you are near?_

 _Just like me, they long to be_

 _Close to you_

" _Why do stars fall down fr –"_

"All right, all right, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, wincing and holding his hands up. "I think it's safe to say that Fawkes did not change that particular scope of your abilities. You have a lovely speaking voice, but that is, I should say, where it ends. Shall we move on?"

Hermione slumped in defeat, still flushed in embarrassment. "Yes, please."

"Now, you said earlier that you sometimes feel physically hot," Dumbledore continued. "Have you noticed a particular affinity for fire magic?"

Hermione shrugged. "I've always been good with fire. My first wandless, nonverbal spell was – well, I'll show you." She lifted her right hand and rotated her wrist, ignoring the pain from her burnt skin. Three bluebell flames sprung to life around her chair, and she smiled. "I used to put one of these in a jar and use it to study under the covers of my four-poster here at school," she said wistfully. "My husband liked them best."

Dumbledore stiffened in his chair, and Hermione realized her slip of the tongue too late.

"I didn't realize you had been married, Hermione," Dumbledore said, looking sad. Sad, because he likely could guess Ron's fate.

"I…" She swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest and her face flushed. "I haven't told anyone here about it. Please don't – please don't say anything."

He held up a hand to stop her. "I will never tell another soul something that you say to me in confidence, Hermione." He paused. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Hermione shook her head, her throat tight. "No. No. I didn't mean to mention it. I'm usually more careful. I…don't like to talk about him. Not usually."

"I understand." Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Are you still feeling up to continuing this session, or would you rather us stop for today and continue tomorrow?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, tomorrow would be good, if that's all right. I'd like to see Draco, and then I have some shopping to get done in Hogsmeade."

"Ah," he said, clapping his hands. "You are going to Slughorn's party on Thursday night, I take it?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, I'd almost forgotten – and I confess I need a gown. These things are typically formal in this time, yes?"

"Yes. This is the first Slug Club event of the year, so it will be black tie. There will be visitors from outside the school," he said, "and I would encourage you to make some contacts, if you can."

Hermione nodded. "All right," she said, her voice feeling hoarse. God, she hated it when she was derailed because of Ron's memory. It made her feel like she'd been hit by the Knight Bus.

"Also, I have gotten permission for you and Draco to go to Diagon Alley tomorrow afternoon to purchase him a new wand. I'm well aware that, despite his lack of consciousness most of the time, he is quite anxious to be able to use his magic again."

She smiled at him. "Oh, Professor, Draco can do quite a bit of magic without a wand. He is far from helpless. However, I can understand his impatience. I'm grateful that you thought of it – I'd forgotten, to be honest."

"You can use the floo in the Headmaster's office to get to the Leaky Cauldron," Dumbledore said, standing from his chair. "I suspect that apparition might not be so kind to Mister Malf – excuse me, Mister _Mallery's,_ body. But I'd like to meet with you again tomorrow morning, same time, to continue our session. Is that agreeable?"

"Very much so," Hermione said, feeling humbled by the attention. "Thank you, Albus."

He chuckled. "Go get yourself a dress, Hermione. If Mister Mallery is awake, perhaps you can convince Madam Soranus to let him accompany you to the village."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "He's dreadful to shop with, but I admit I have a hard time doing it without him. He's certainly not afraid to tell me what he thinks, and he has _impeccable_ taste of course, being a Malfoy and all – you should have met his mother. What a piece of work."

"I imagine I will meet his mother, Miss Granger, in about twenty years," he said, his eyes sparkling with a shared secret humor. "Go on," he said, ushering her out the door of the Room of Requirement and into the hallway outside. "You have much work to do. And remember, if you don't find a dress today, you can always step out of Ollivander's for a moment tomorrow afternoon and peruse Diagon Alley. I won't tell if you won't."

Hermione smiled. "Good day, Professor."

"Good day, Hermione. Enjoy your time in Hogsmeade," he replied, parting with her at the stairs when she made to go back to her dorm to bathe and change. He gave her one last wink, and then with a flourish of garish yellow robes he was gone. Hermione chuckled to herself. Even with all of his faults, she did love her old headmaster.

Sighing, she approached the Gryffindor common room, looking forward to the prospect of bathing. She had some shopping to do.

* * *

oooo

An hour later, she was standing on a raised platform in the middle of a formalwear store that boasted a wide variety of both men's and women's dress robes. She scowled at Draco, who sat peacefully in a wheelchair wearing a shit-eating grin. He knew how much she hated shopping.

She'd finally chosen a dress, a Gryffindor red, floor length number with three-quarter sleeves, a boat neck and an open back. It was simple but elegant, and flattered her thin frame. The elderly witch who was currently altering the gown to fit her had not once commented on the array of scars that the dress failed to cover, and Hermione was grateful for her restraint. She was getting a bit tired of people continuing to point them out.

The door chime rung out, and Hermione turned to look at the newcomer. It was Raven Flynn.

"Hello Granger," the girl said with a nod. "Shopping for Slughorn's party?"

Hermione made a face. "Yes. You?"

Raven grinned. "Fortunately today I'm just picking up a dress I ordered last week. I'm not a huge fan of shopping, but I would be crucified by the other girls of high society if I were seen wearing robes I'd worn last year. You know how it is," she finished, rolling her eyes.

Hermione chuckled, holding her dress up on one side as the old shopkeeper went to the back to grab Raven's gown. It was black. "I do indeed. Raven, have you met Draco?"

The dark-haired girl looked over to where Draco sat in his chair. He stood – a little shakily, but he managed – and took her hand to shake it. "Hello."

The Slytherin smiled at him. "Nice to meet you, Draco. How are you feeling today?"

He shrugged, and sat back down heavily. "Well enough to be out and about, but a bit tired. It's an improvement from yesterday. Hopefully in the next few days I'll continue to build up some strength."

"I hope you do," Raven said. "You won't want to miss Slughorn's party. I've no doubt that old Sluggy will issue an invitation to you come Monday. You and Hermione here have become the talk of the town, so to speak."

Draco leaned his head back against the wheelchair. "Delightful." His tone dripped with sarcasm.

Raven laughed. "It can be fun," she said shrugging. "There are all sorts of interesting people from outside of school that show up for the first party of the year." She turned to Hermione. "Would the two of you like to join me for a butterbeer down at the Three Broomsticks after you're finished here?"

Hermione nodded. "Of course. We'd love the company."

"I'll meet you there at one o'clock?" she said, handing the shopkeeper a handful of galleons in exchange for the dress. "I've got one more errand to run, and then I'll go grab a seat at the Three Broomsticks while you finish up here."

"Sounds good, we'll see you in a few minutes," Hermione returned.

Raven wiggled her fingers at them and swept elegantly out of the store.

"Pretty," Draco muttered, following her departing form through the window as she walked briskly down the street. "She's the partner in Potions you told me about?"

Hermione nodded in confirmation, when something drew her eye out the window and across the street.

Tom Riddle had seen her through the window, and was staring at her with narrowed eyes. He wore a pitch-black jacket and an equally black cloak, and with his black hair and pale skin and dark eyes he looked like some sort of dark angel – or an angelic demon. She hated herself for the way her heartbeat doubled, and Fawkes' odd interest in the diabolical Head Boy swelled within her chest, warming her.

She lifted her hand and waved at him teasingly, smirking. He scowled, and then continued on his way, glancing back in her direction one more time before rounding a corner and disappearing from her sight.

Draco watched their brief interaction and grimaced. He waited until the seamstress went into the back room for a moment before he spoke. "I don't like it, Hermione. This…weird camaraderie between you two. Please be careful."

Hermione shrugged. She'd put a glamour charm on her bruised arm so that Draco wouldn't see it and do something drastic; she ran her hand over the spot where a purplish-blue handprint had started to darken. "I will be careful."

"You're reckless," Draco murmured, looking at her with his entrancing mercurial eyes. "You didn't used to be. Ever since Ro –"

" _Don't_ finished that sentence, Draco," she said heatedly. "Just drop the subject."

Draco sighed. "Fine. I'll drop it for today, but we _will_ talk about this sooner rather than later, Hermione." He looked at the spot where Tom had disappeared. "I know your plan to try to alter the future, but I fear you are about to get sucked into something that you won't be able to get out of."

Hermione did not respond, merely went to the back of the store and shucked the dress, putting her normal clothes back on. When she came back out, she paid the elderly woman for the dress and told her she'd be back to pick it up before she went back up to the castle for the evening. The quiet woman merely nodded and banished it to the storeroom.

Hermione took Draco's wheelchair by the handles and they exited the store and turned towards the Three Broomsticks. Neither spoke another word about Tom Riddle for the rest of the day.

But he still weighed heavy in her mind; much like an unwanted shadow prowling around the edges of her psyche, a sinister, lurking presence that promised nothing but assured misery and dark, illicit thrills.

Still, she was not afraid.

oooo

* * *

 **I really couldn't resist interjecting the kraken in there somewhere. Stupid and random, I know, but I won't apologize for it.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _She looked up to Tom. "Thanks for being the bait," she teased, grinning. The white shine of her teeth and the appearance of the dimple on her cheek and the flash of her bright eyes were like a sucker punch to the gut._

 **Please review!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	15. Chapter 15

**I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update. Here's why. Prepare to gasp in horror.**

 **I went to my sister's house for Christmas (happy belated Christmas and New Years, by the way) and on Monday morning I woke up and promptly knocked the water glass off of my bedside table and onto the carpet. Now, my computer was on the floor next to my bed – closed. Totally closed. And it didn't even get the brunt of the spilled water. Only like a** _ **teaspoon**_ **of water got on it. And remember, it was** _ **closed.**_

 **Apparently none of that mattered, because even though I was suddenly WIDE AWAKE and dried my computer off almost obsessively, it wouldn't turn on. Of course, I'm starting to panic, and all I'm thinking is that ALL of my shit is on this computer, and no matter how many times I told myself that I would go out and get an external hard drive to back my shit up, I** _ **never did it.**_ **Yes, feel free to shame me all you like.**

 **My sister, being the lovely person that she is, calmed me down and assured me that it would probably be okay, but even if it wasn't someone would still be able to get the hard drive out and all of my information would be safe. So I felt optimistic. Keep in mind that I know practically** _ **nothing**_ **about computers. I'm like, 80 years old. My 86-year-old step-granddad has a fucking Facebook (he calls it "The Facebook") and has a nice new Windows computer…yeah. I don't want to talk about it.**

 **But I digress. So here I am, without use of a functioning computer, with** _ **six years worth of work**_ **unable to be accessed. And this isn't just my stuff for Fanfiction, or old school papers – this includes over 220,000 words of a novel that I've been working on for over 7 years. Not to mention separate documents full of character development, plot outlines, general layouts for this one novel – all gone.**

 **So my dad – who is my hero, honestly, he's so freaking awesome – agrees to buy me a new Mac to replace my old broken one, and directs me to go to the Apple store in Raleigh (where I now live) so that they can take the hard drive out and load all of my stuff onto my new computer. Unfortunately, Apple is fucking retarded (excuse my language) and they aren't "licensed" to work on anything older than 5 years (and this is a 2010 – I got it in college), so they tell me that though it looks like my hard drive is uncorrupted, they can't do anything with it. So I go to Best Buy, and I get a new computer and get the Geek Squad to do what Apple wouldn't. So the next day I get a call, and they say that they got all of the information from my old computer onto an external hard drive, and then tried to put it on the new computer – only to find out that the information is** _ **encrypted.**_

 **You can imagine my surprise. So here I am, a twenty-four year old girl wearing a dumbfounded-deer-in-headlights expression, wondering how on** _ **earth**_ **I managed to encrypt all of my information when I can barely open my Documents file without my hands shaking like I'm about to defuse a bomb or something (okay so maybe that's a little bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one).**

 **Long story short, Best Buy couldn't do shit, so now I'm panicking again, and my uncle gets me in touch with a company that he works with a lot here in Raleigh. So I take all my shit to them, and I am still waiting on the verdict for whether or not they will be able to recover my information and – here's the important part – how much it will** _ **cost.**_ **Because I'm poor, and can't afford to run all over the place and shell out 700 bucks…at the same time, I refuse to lose all of that work. So I might have to dip into the trust fund that my Grandpa set up for me – which pisses me off, because I'm saving all that shit for later when, you know, I want to buy a house, or send my future children to college, or whatever (granted, I don't want children, but we're speaking in hypotheticals here).**

 **Anyways, I have had spotty access to computers for the past couple of weeks, not to mention that I have none of the stuff that I'd prewritten, or any of the details about my HP universe in this fic, or any of the flashback scenes that I've constructed (there is a particularly important one that I worked on for a while just to create the right atmosphere, and I really hope to God I don't have to try to replicate it, because it's just so** _ **good).**_ **Also, all of the kickass quotes I've discovered and written down over the years - including ones that I painstakingly selected to use in this fic - have vanished as well. It's just sad.**

 **So if things are a little bit slow for me from now on, please forgive me. Also, I bought an external hard drive so that I can keep this nightmarish situation from ever happening again. And I'm still hoping and praying that I can get all of that mess back…I've spent an annoying amount of time crying over the possibility that it's lost for good.**

 **So there it is. Begin the shaming, and the comments about my utter stupidity of not backing up my shit – I'm ready for it. And I deserve it. So yeah. Don't be shy.**

 **Anyway, here is chapter 15, finally. I'm sorry I made you wait so long. There is a lot of Tomione interaction in this one though, so hopefully the tension will make up for it.**

 **Action!**

* * *

oooo

The thing women must do to rise to power is to redefine their femininity. Once, power was considered a masculine attribute. In fact, power has no sex. -Katharine Graham

Pair up in threes. - Yogi Berra

They say the Devil's water - it ain't so sweet  
You don't have to drink right now  
But you can dip your feet  
Every once in a little while  
-"When You Were Young" by The Killers

* * *

oooo

"Unfortunately, you'll need a chaperone."

"A chaperone?"

Draco frowned as Dumbledore sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Dippet was lax with you last week when you went to Diagon Alley, Hermione, but mostly because he was still in a bit of shock from your rather… _unorthodox_ arrival. He has since come to his senses, and as such doesn't think that it is appropriate for two young students to be, I think his words were, 'gallivanting around town without proper supervision.'"

Draco growled, feeling rather humorless. His head was pounding, as usual, and his right arm tended to go numb at the most inopportune times – but for the most part he was better, stronger than he had been the two days previous. He was using a crutch to walk today, as his wheelchair was too cumbersome to travel with by floo. "Did you mention the fact that we are two _grown_ adults that have _literally_ walked right out of hell and are pretty fucking used to looking out for ourselves?" Draco said sourly, leaning against the wall of his former headmaster's study.

Dumbledore sighed. "Language, Mister Mallery," he said tiredly. "And yes, I have brought it to his attention, but when Armando gets an idea into his head, I'm afraid it's very difficult to pry it out."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please don't tell me that _Tom Riddle_ is going to be our escort. Please."

The professor leaned back in his chair. "We have our monthly staff meeting from eleven to three, and so none of the teachers can take you. Tom volunteered to accompany you."

Hermione grimaced, pulling anxiously on a lock of hair that was still slightly damp from her bath after her morning run with the Avery boy. "Of course he did. How _generous_ of him." Draco snorted, and they shared a look.

Dumbledore looked apprehensive. "Dippet favors the boy. He always has. I cannot move him on many things when it comes to Tom Riddle. Our Head Boy has wrapped the headmaster around his finger, and while I have quite a bit of sway with Armando, he has a major blind spot when it comes to Riddle. And there is nothing that I can say or do to change his mind, short of causing Tom bodily harm that actually prevents him from going."

Draco leaned forward eagerly. "I can assist you with that," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Nothing a shattered leg won't fix."

Dumbledore gave him a wry smile. "Be that as it may, Draco, I would not advise it. Surely you can handle a few hours in his company? You'll be out in public, at least. You'll just have to be extra careful about what you say in front of him."

Hermione winced. "It's like walking on the edge of a knife, Professor," she said wearily. "Knowing what to say and not to say. And trying to figure out how close to get to him. It's…precarious."

Albus stood from behind his desk, towering above both of them from his great height of 6'4". "I understand. As long as you can make it through to the end of the year, Hermione, then you can sit your N.E.W.T.s and move on with your life – whatever that may look like. You'll be able to be free of this school and all of its inhabitants."

Draco met Hermione's complex brown eyes for a moment before she looked away. He was quite sure that if Hermione had to stay in this timeline, she would _never_ be free of Tom Riddle. He was, Draco thought, in her past, present and future. And even if she were physically removed from him, he and his words and deeds as both young Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort would linger on in her memory, haunting her. Draco did not envy his friend her photographic memory. Not at all.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Unfortunately we'll not have time to study your condition this morning, Hermione – Tom has a prefect meeting this evening, and needs time to prepare. He's asked to leave at ten, so I'm afraid you'll have to go straight to the headmaster's office from here. I'll accompany you."

He ushered them out into the hallway and locked his office door behind him, and they started down the corridor to the headmaster's office in silence, all three feeling apprehensive. Draco could practically taste the tension on his tongue. He reached out and touched Hermione's elbow gently, pulling her out of her no doubt tumultuous thoughts. He recognized the look on her face when she got lost in her own head.

"Relax," he said lowly, hobbling along on his crutch.

Hermione snorted. "Says you: Mister Doomsday, always telling me to 'be careful' and 'don't get too comfortable' and 'don't trust anyone.' You are the most pessimistic person I know."

Draco scoffed. _"You_ are a _total_ pessimist. Talk about the pot and kettle."

Hermione frowned and stuck her chin out stubbornly. "I'm a realist. There is a difference."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine," he conceded, knowing that she would never back down from a point when her jaw stuck out like that. Not his Hermione. Stubborn as a stone, when it suited her.

She reached down and squeezed his free hand. "We'll be fine."

"Yes, we will," he murmured. "I think we can handle it. Remember the manticore? And the kraken? This can hardly be worse than that. An afternoon at Diagon Alley is all that it'll be. We'll just ignore Riddle as best we can, and get it over with."

She smiled at him in gratitude. "You always know how to put things in perspective, Draco. Way to remind me of two of the most terrifying experiences of our lives."

He shrugged. "Honestly, I wasn't even scared. You're just a wimp, is all."

She scoffed. "I distinctly remember you screaming like a little girl when that manticore got a claw into the back of your leg. And again when you were about to be kraken food. It's a very distinctive sound. Like a…squealing rabbit."

Draco looked at her in horror. "You take that back! I do _not_ sound like a bloody _rabbit."_

"A baby rabbit, Mallery. A teeny tiny, little bitty, baby ra — "

Dumbledore looked back at them and cleared his throat, cutting her off. "If you two are quite finished…" He gestured to the gargoyles in front of the headmaster's office.

Draco coughed in embarrassment. "Er, yes, Professor — right."

"Up you go," the old wizard said kindly. "Remember: be careful what you say."

Hermione grinned at him. "We're always careful. Right, Draco?"

"Absolutely," he said confidently, smiling at Dumbledore.

Their old headmaster raised his eyebrows. "Somehow I get the feeling that you two have a loose definition of the word 'careful.'" He smiled at them. "However, I'm prone to such sentiments myself. Now, go on, get going. I'll see you at dinner this evening. I hope you have an easy time finding a wand, Mister Mallery. Ah, and the password is 'meningitis'."

Hermione and Draco looked at each other curiously as Dumbledore turned abruptly and swept away down the hall. They then looked to the gargoyles, which jumped aside.

"Meningitis?" Draco mumbled as he stepped onto the staircase, Hermione not far behind. "That's… Well. I can't quite find the words."

"Weird?" Hermione suggested. "Morbid? Indicative of someone who is effectively losing their mind?"

Draco snorted. "All three, but the last one seems the most accurate." He looked down into the swirling depths of his friend's brown eyes. "You ready?"

She grinned. "I was _born_ ready."

He rolled his eyes as she sniggered in amusement. The staircase ground to a halt, and they pushed open the door.

* * *

oooo

Tom paced in front of the fireplace in Dippet's office, glaring at the floor as the headmaster sat at his desk and puffed away on his pipe. He was…anxious. And Tom didn't often feel _anxious._

"Riddle, my dear boy, I fear you will wear a hole in the floor in front of my fireplace," the ancient man said, his voice small and hoarse. "Whatever troubles you so?"

Tom internally rolled his eyes, but pasted on an indulgent smile and stopped pacing. "Merely going over the points I need to bring up during my meeting with the prefects tonight. And eager for our two new students to arrive, so that we can commence our trip to Diagon Alley."

Dippet chuckled. "Oh, yes. I can imagine that you _are_ indeed eager. I've noticed that our Miss Granger has caught your interest."

Tom froze. "Pardon?" He choked out, staring at his headmaster in shock.

The old wizard chuckled again. "Don't worry, Tom. Horace pointed it out to me a few days ago, and given that the two of you are both remarkable students, we think it would be a good match. I would encourage you to use your outing today as an opportunity to get to know her better. She seems to have a certain disregard for the rules of society, and could use a nice young man like you to help settle her down."

Tom stared, trying to keep his expression neutral. Horror rose up in his throat, wrapping around his windpipe and squeezing. He had to remind himself to breathe. "I'm sure you and Professor Slughorn must have gotten the wrong idea, Headmaster," Tom said tightly. "Both Granger and Mallery are interesting, and I would very much like to know more of their story, but that is where the sentiment ends. I'm really trying to focus on my studies. Romance is far from my mind, I can assure you." A pair of enigmatic eyes swirling with the colors of autumn flickered across his mind's eye, and he simultaneously felt a rush of dark hatred, insatiable intrigue, and heady desire. But the burning red anger rushed most heavily through his ears.

Dippet laughed, puffing again on his pipe. The heavy smell of the smoke suddenly felt suffocating. "Of course, Tom, of course," the headmaster said with a chuckle. "Don't worry: your secret is safe with me." He winked.

An image of himself reaching across the headmaster's desk and strangling the life from the old coot's neck with his bare hands flashed through Tom's mind, and he allowed it to amuse him for a few seconds before he put it away and addressed the older wizard with a mild smile. "I appreciate the interest in my love life, Headmaster Dippet," he said with a gracious bow of his head, the word "love" burning his tongue like a hot iron. "And I'm honored that Professor Slughorn cares enough to mention it to you. But please don't waste your time entertaining such notions. If and when I feel it is appropriate for me to start courting women, I think I can manage just fine on my own." The lie tasted sour on his tongue, and he wondered why the thought of romance with a woman prickled at his brain uncomfortably; he'd never _ever_ entertained the notion of "settling down" with a woman. It was just _not_ an option.

The headmaster gave a full belly laugh. "Very well then, I will keep my head out of your affairs, Riddle; but I expect that Professor Slughorn will be harder to convince. You know how much of a matchmaker he fancies himself to be. And he has his eye set on you and Miss Granger. You'd make a very handsome pair, you know."

Tom raised his eyebrow, not amused. "Indeed." The comment did not invite a response.

Tom turned slowly as he heard the stone staircase turn, suddenly feeling an odd tightness in his gut. He frowned when the door opened and his heart skipped.

He was not prone to such physical manifestations; odd, then, that a fiery girl and her conspicuously icy companion could inspire such feelings within him. Odd, and unprecedented. And _unwanted._

Mallery entered the room first, leaning heavily upon a wooden crutch but looking far healthier than he had yesterday and the day before; his grey eyes were filled with the same frigidity and determination that Tom had seen upon first meeting him Friday night. He was wearing a white uniform shirt and a pair of grey slacks, and navy robes. He tugged at the collar of his shirt.

Strangely, Tom got the image of a wolf wearing sheep's clothing.

Granger entered afterwards, sweeping in elegantly and closing the door behind her. In a classic, casual black dress and a hooded cloak the color of fresh blood, her hair pinned back from her face and falling down her back in riotous curls, she was the picture of stylish elegance. However, if Mallery looked like a wolf in sheep's clothing, she had the look of a dragon entertaining the rest of the world by wearing clothes; just waiting for the right moment to rip them off and set fire to the very society that would impose such a thing to begin with. She wore no makeup; she didn't need any, as the first thing anyone would be drawn to look at was the pair of deep-set sorrel eyes that dominated her lightly tanned face.

"Good morning!" She said cheerily, flashing Tom and the headmaster a charming smile. Tom saw the glint of mischief in her eyes, and watched as Draco gave her a barely perceptible smirk. She turned to Tom.

"Oh, Tom, thank you so much for volunteering to go with us today," she said, smiling at him, her eyes deep and warm and filled with derision and promises of danger. "We know how busy your schedule is as Head Boy, and we're grateful that you're willing to take the time to escort us to Diagon Alley."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her in warning before returning her polite smile. "Of course, Hermione. I'm sure Mallery is just itching to get his hands on a wand."

He looked over at the flaxen-haired man, holding his hand out for Mallery to shake. The other boy took his hand smoothly in a well-practiced maneuver that spoke of aristocracy and highbrow society. He was willing to bet that this Mallery character was a pureblood.

Of course, he couldn't know for sure, because his contacts at the Ministry were still in the process of getting their hands on the two soldiers' records. Inept fools.

Mallery gave him a tight smile, though his strange, mercurial eyes were two icebergs in his face. "I appreciate the time. No matter how much wandless magic one practices, it's just not the same as having a wand in hand."

Read: _I would like to have a wand, but I can beat your arse whether I have one or not, so don't challenge me._

Tom gave him a mild smile. "Well, I'm certain that Mister Ollivander will have the perfect fit for you today." He squeezed the other boy's hand, and withdrew. "Some say he's the most accomplished wandmaker in the world."

"Indeed. He is quite remarkable," Dippet said, standing and coming forth from behind his desk. "Although, Miss Granger, I do think you have a new wand that he might want to take a look at. Word has reached him of the wand you received in Africa, and I think he is most anxious to meet you."

Tom noticed the skin around her eyes tighten. "I'll be glad to indulge him his curiosities," she drawled. She looked over at Tom. "Shall we?" she asked, her voice dropping to a tone that had his hackles rising and his loins stirring. She smirked at him. He tilted his head, and smirked back.

"Of course. Shall I go first?"

She nodded. "Perhaps that would be best. We'll follow your example and be right behind you."

He looked to Dippet. "We'll be back sooner rather than later, I should hope," he said nonchalantly. "We'll floo into Hogsmeade and take a carriage back to the school. Enjoy your staff meeting, sir."

Dippet nodded, looking between Hermione and Tom and winking infuriatingly. "Thank you, Mister Riddle. As always, I know I can count on you to be responsible and set a good example for our school."

Tom nodded, turned towards the fireplace, rolled his eyes, grabbed some floo powder, and shouted "Diagon Alley!" In a handful of seconds, he was standing in the Leaky Cauldron. He brushed soot off of his robes.

"Oof!" He stumbled forward as a solid mass of soft fabric and wild hair hit him in the back, pushing him forward. He inhaled the subtle smells of lavender, brown sugar, parchment and just a hint of wood smoke as he caught himself against the wall and clasped Granger's arm, steadying her as she came flying through the floo.

She straightened her dress and cloak, and looked over at him coolly. "You know, typically you _step out_ of the fireplace after you floo in. I thought that was common knowledge."

He sneered at her, both hateful and appreciative of her acerbic wit. "It's also _common knowledge_ that you're supposed to wait a few seconds before flooing in after someone." He released her arm from his grip, aware that he was still holding it. It was strangely warm.

"Has your fever not gone down?" he asked, frowning. "It's been almost two weeks. Surely Soranus has treated it by now?" He boldly put the back of his hand to her forehead simply because he was curious as to how she would take it. It was burning hot.

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she grasped his hand with her own, bringing it down to rest by his side. She squeezed it in warning, the skin of her palm dry and hot.

"Yes, she did treat it, and no, it has not gone away," she said, cocking her head to one side, her jaw clenched. "And remember our little talk about you putting your hands on me without my permission?"

He would _swear_ he saw her eyes flare red-orange for a split-second before they swirled back to their typical conglomeration of russet and tawny and bistre. Not that they were exactly "typical." No; Hermione Granger was anything but typical.

He leaned in closer to her as they heard the sound of Draco coming through the floo. He felt her hair tickle his cheek as he drew his face towards her ear. "And what would constitute _permission,_ Hermione?"

He pulled away from her just as Mallery landed in the fireplace, coughing and brushing soot out of his hair. The blond stepped forward, and Hermione went to him, brushing ash and dust off of his robes until he batted her away with a muttered "All right, Mum, leave off."

When she turned back towards him, the peachy flush that spread across her high cheekbones and pale throat made his blood heat in his veins. He caught her eyes, and smirked in satisfaction. She looked somewhat like a startled rabbit, before her mask of cool indifference fell back into place. He could see the red-hot hostility shining in her eyes, though; could _feel_ it in the heat of her skin as she brushed past him, the side of her cloak catching on his robes. He smiled as the two old friends strode towards the bar, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.

He had found the most effective way to unsettle Hermione Granger, and he was just _dying_ to put it to good use.

He followed them casually, and watched curiously as Hermione pulled a handful of galleons out of her cloak — far more than was necessary to buy a simple drink — and put them on the counter, catching the eye of the bartender who unfortunately shared Tom's _annoyingly common_ first name.

"Hello, Tom," Hermione said charmingly, sending him a stunning smile — dimples and all. "How are you doing today?"

The older bartender came over to her immediately, his beady brown eyes staring at her with as close to _affection_ as Tom thought he'd ever seen. "Hullo, Hermione. What are you doin' here today?" he asked, smiling at her with only a handful of teeth to boast.

She leaned forward. "Well, first off I'd like three firewhiskies — Blishen's, please, if you don't mind — for my friends and me," she said, gesturing to Draco and Tom. "And then I'd like to know how _you_ are doing, Tom; and only then would I like you to tell me what the word on the street is, so to speak."

The owner of the pub looked extraordinarily pleased. Tom struggled not to roll his eyes. Apparently what Avery had said was true: she did know how to schmooze with the best of them. Only the tiny glint of uncertainty in her eyes gave away the fact that she was not at all comfortable in the roll.

Tom sidled up next to Hermione at the bar, making sure to be close enough that she got flustered; she very determinedly did not look at him, though he saw her hand squeeze the edge of the bar in a white-knuckled grip. Again, his eyes were drawn to the tiny threads of gold ink that stained the skin of her middle finger; he would have to pry the information out of her somehow.

The bartender Tom slid a shot of firewhisky to all three of them, and Tom grabbed his and, against his better judgment as the Head Boy of Hogwarts, tossed it back. He watched Hermione and Draco do the same, and was impressed but not at all surprised when neither of them winced. He watched the frustrating witch next to him lick her lips, catching the spare bit of whisky that ended up on her bottom lip, and felt his body suddenly flush with desire.

Merlin be damned, why was he reacting so strongly? She was hardly the most beautiful woman he'd ever encountered. And she wasn't exactly eager to jump into his bed, either. In fact, she was a about as inviting as a bloody cactus. Hopping in bed with her might be like trying to sleep with a venomous tantacula. There was nothing that should make him want her so badly.

Just as he was berating himself for his inexcusable distraction, he saw her fingers flush with orange light suddenly before it faded away. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger in his nose.

 _That. That_ was why he wanted her so badly. Because nothing about her made sense, and every time he drew near to her he could _feel_ the power underneath her skin, burning, vibrating, humming, just waiting to be unleashed. But what was it, exactly, that made her power so different from others'? Albus Dumbledore's power was palpable, and very, _very_ strong. Tom could feel Mulciber's power when he was casting, and sometimes picked up on Raven Flynn's deep, mysterious magic when she walked by him in the halls or stood next to him in class. Dolohov's dark magic felt like oil against Tom's skin when the younger boy sat near to him. Hell, Mallery, even from a few feet away, vibrated with a cold, angry magic that Tom could practically taste on the end of his tongue.

But her magic…it was unique. She had more power than the average witch or wizard, that was for sure, but Tom could tell that she wasn't, overall, more powerful than himself or Dumbledore or other remarkably skilled magicians. Though impressive, it was not the sheer magnitude of her power that had caught his attention and continued to keep it — it was the strangeness of it, the temperature of it; it burned like fire and lightning and lava, and was fueled by justice and kindness…and loss and hate and _vengeance._ It was unearthly in its intensity, and he didn't know what to make of it. He wanted it for himself, but the more he was around her, and the more he was exposed to little glimpses of her magic, the more he wondered if it would not just be a better idea to destroy it.

Then again, he would have to kill her…and no matter how many potential problems that would solve, and how many threats it would eliminate, he just _didn't want to do it._ At least, not just yet.

He was — quite literally, he felt — playing with fire.

"I'm doing well, Hermione," Tom the bartender was saying. "Er, well, I started seeing someone." He blushed, looking bashful.

Hermione laughed delightedly. "That's _great,_ Tom! I'm so happy for you! Well, come on then, tell me her name." Tom stared at her in effectively concealed awe, wondering at how she could sound so bloody interested in one of _the least interesting people_ on the planet.

"Name's Gertrude," the barkeep said, pouring them each another shot even though they hadn't asked for any more. Mallery immediately downed his, catching Tom's eye over Hermione's head. They shared a look. Though Tom could tell Mallery wasn't someone he would come to like, necessarily — the boy was as cold as an icicle, and deeply suspicious of strangers — they did, apparently, have something in common: they had no interest in making small talk. Granger, however, was eating this shit up like Sunday brunch after winning the quidditch World Cup. She was acting, of course, but damn if it didn't seem genuine.

"And what does Gertrude do?" Hermione said kindly, her eyes shining with expertly feigned interest.

"She's a healer's aid at St. Mungo's," he replied. "She came to the pub on Friday evening, and I sat down for dinner with her. And we're goin' out again tonight. 'M nervous."

Hermione shook her head and smiled. "Don't be nervous. You had dinner once, and she liked you enough to see you again. You've got nothing to worry about, Tom. It'll be great."

Tom blushed. "Well. Enough about me. Oh!" he exclaimed, leaning towards them and away from the subtly prying eyes of the rest of the restaurant. "There's news — from the continent."

Draco and Tom both leaned forward now, interested. Tom got another whiff of Hermione's scent - he thought it might be coming from her hair — and his eyes fluttered closed briefly.

He was a damned fool.

"What news?" Hermione asked. All work and no play now, her face was deadly serious. "Grindelwald?"

Tom nodded. "He's got spies all over Britain, they say, and he's startin' to move into North Africa and the Middle East, too."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "That's awfully quick."

"Too quick," Tom heard Draco mutter. The blonde's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't like it, Hermione. We shouldn't be here."

Hermione shushed him. "What else, Tom?" she asked lowly.

"Well, there's talk…talk about you," the pub owner said, looking uncomfortable. "The Ministry wants to bring you in, question you. Word is Dumbledore's doin' everythin' he can to keep them from you, but I dunno how long he'll be able to say no to Minister Spencer-Moon. Leonard is pretty tough when he sets his mind to something; but Dumbledore has a lot of power in the Ministry. A _lot._ "

Hermione drummed her fingers on the bar. Tom remained silent, content to watch her and listen as she spoke with the bartender (who had just earned himself a place on Tom's list of "Potentially Useful People to Have in His Pocket"). "Draco and I can handle the Ministry," she said, determination sparking in her eyes. "No need to worry about us, Tom. We have nothing to hide."

Tom almost snorted out loud at the lie. Nothing to hide. _Right._

"Oh, and I almost forgot to mention," the old bartender said conspiratorially, "Apparently there's talk of a _woman_ Minister running for office during the next election. It's buzzing around the town. A _witch,_ as _Minster for Magic —_ it hasn't happened in more than three decades. Not after Venusia Crickerly died and the Wizengamot determined that women were unfit to hold the highest office. It's wild."

Hermione snorted. "Bloody ridiculous is what it is. Women not fit to hold office," she muttered bitterly. "Utter stupidity."

Tom was reminded of what she'd said yesterday after breakfast: _I mean honestly, Tom, how do you stand it? The utter stupidity of it?_

Tom watched as Draco put a gentle hand on Hermione's back. "We should get going, Granger," he said quietly. "You know how I hate spending too much time in one place."

Hermione turned and smiled. "Of course." She looked back at the owner of the Leaky. "Goodbye, Tom; I'll see you soon, all right? Please tell Gertrude that I can't wait to meet her."

Tom the bartender flushed under her attention, and blushed even darker when she leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek. "All righ', Hermione. Good day to you."

Tom was left standing in something of a stupor by the bar stool as Granger shot down her second firewhisky and left with a flurry of her crimson cloak, stalking towards the door with purpose. Tom wondered if she was aware of all of the sets of eyes that followed her every move. Mallery certainly was — he scowled at the other patrons of the pub until they all looked back down into their drinks.

Hermione got to the door and then turned back. "Are you coming along, or not?" she asked haughtily, her color still high from his proximity to her at the bar. "I was under the impression that chaperones were supposed to accompany their charges to their destinations. Am I wrong?"

Tom glared at her, and shot his second firewhisky down before nodding at Tom the barkeep in thanks and striding over to where she and Mallery stood. He opened the door for them and bowed mockingly. "Please, after you, Your Excellency."

Hermione gave him a sour look, Draco actually snorted in amusement which earned him an elbow to the ribs, and Tom let the door swing shut behind them and took the lead towards Ollivander's.

"He's right down here, on the left," he said clearly. "And I know a little place to grab lunch afterwards. If you need to do any more shopping, today's a good day for it. I don't have to be back at the school until four; though I'd prefer to get back as early as possible, if it's all the same to you."

Mallery shrugged. "I might could use an owl."

Hermione snorted. "And who exactly do you plan on owling?" she said incredulously. "We don't know anybody here, and everyone back home is either dead, or missing and presumed dead."

The harsh reality with which she said it made Draco's eyelid twitch. "Everyone could use a personal owl, Hermione. You got a cat - I want an owl. It's as simple as that."

Hermione sighed. "Fine. I'm sorry."

They got to the front of Ollivander's, and Tom felt an irrational flush of jealously wrap around his spine and squeeze as Mallery reached forward and pulled Granger's bottom lip out from between her teeth.

"Stop it," he said quietly. "You'll chew your lip off, one of these days."

She batted his hand away and scowled. "Just go buy a wand, you wanker. Go on," she said, pushing him towards the door, sniggering as he caught his crutch on a cobblestone and stumbled, righting himself quickly. "Do try to make it through the front door without falling on your face."

Mallery sneered at his friend — girlfriend? No, that didn't seem right — and Tom opened the door for him when he was ready, ushering them both inside. He smiled to himself as Hermione tried to go through the door without touching him; she wasn't successful. She glared up at him as she turned sideways to squeeze between his body and the doorframe, incidentally brushing her chest against his own, skimming it. He grinned at her meanly as she blushed, unable to control her bodily reactions to being in his presence. She snarled, ducking past him and into the wand shop with a harrumph.

Ollivander seemed to recognize them immediately. He looked at Tom. "Mister Riddle," he greeted in his thin, hoarse voice. "How nice to see you again. It's been a few years, hasn't it? How's the wand treating you?"

Tom smiled, pulling out his yew and phoenix feather wand, fondling the bone handle. "As well as ever, Mister Ollivander — I can't thank you enough. It's perfect."

The middle aged man smiled, pleased. He looked to Mallery. "And you must be Draco Mallery," he said, coming out from behind his desk. "Yes, I was told you need a new wand. And look at that hair — like you've had a terrible shock."

Draco's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "A gift from my parents, Mister Ollivander." He shook the wandmaker's hand. "It's a pleasure."

Ollivander's eyes turned to Hermione. "And you, my dear — well, aren't you lovely." Tom watched as the girl blushed faintly and clenched her teeth together. It was interesting to see how awkward she was under flattery. She shied away from it in the classroom, and now when someone commented on her physical appearance she was flushing like a schoolgirl. "And I hope I'm not being too forward, Miss Granger — but would you be so kind as to let me look at your wand?"

Tom stared, watching intently as her eyes traveled to Draco, and then to Tom, where they lingered for a moment. Then she looked back to Ollivander and smiled tightly. "Of course," she said, sliding her wand out from Merlin-knew-where — honestly, Tom could not figure out where she kept the damned thing. "Be careful — sometimes it doesn't take to strangers so nicely."

Mallery barked out a laugh and flexed his right hand. "Yeah, the last time I tried to touch it, it blasted me across the room and broke all of the fingers on my right hand. Luckily it isn't my wand hand, but still — I was not amused." He gave Granger a mild glare, and she looked away, sheepish. She handed the wand to Ollivander.

Tom watched in fascination as Ollivander jolted, the wand shocking him as if in warning. The wandmaker laughed uncomfortably, but was immediately captivated by the unusual, striking wand. "Gorgeous," the older man breathed, running his long spindly fingers along the whirled wood of the handle and then down to skim along the straight line of the wand itself. "Absolutely stunning. The wood is pink ivory, yes?" he asked, looking up at Hermione.

She shifted, staring at the wand in his hand. "Yes, sir."

"And the core?"

"Nundu heartstring, sir."

Ollivander sucked in air through his teeth in a low whistle, shaking his head in wonder. "Interesting. Very interesting." He fondled the wand a bit more, and then handed it back to Hermione. Tom watched it with greedy eyes, wanting so badly to hold it. For what properties did nundu heartstring give to a wand, he wondered? "I would very much like to speak with you at greater length about your wand, Miss Granger, if you are amenable to it. I hear you will be at Slughorn's first Slug Club ball this Thursday, correct?"

Granger nodded. "Yes. You'll be there as well?"

"I will indeed. Perhaps you will give me ten minutes of your time?" Ollivander asked kindly.

Hermione smiled. "Oh, I'm sure I could spare fifteen, Mister Ollivander," she replied jokingly. She stowed her wand so quickly that, once again, Tom was left without a point of origin. He sighed in frustration.

Ollivander chuckled. He looked to Mallery. "Now, Mister Mallery — can you tell me about your previous wand?"

Draco shifted, and Ollivander gestured for him to sit down on the chair in the corner and rest. He did, sitting down in relief. "I've had several, sir."

The wandmaker waved his hand. "Tell me about all of them."

Mallery cleared his throat and looked up to the ceiling. "My first was hawthorn and unicorn hair, ten inches. Then I used my mother's wand for a week until I could find another — it was hornbeam and unicorn hair, nine and a half inches." He blinked rapidly. "I then used a spare wand I found off a — well, one I'd found," he said uncomfortably. The unspoken words hung loud in the small, stuffy shop: _A spare wand I found off a dead body._ "Walnut and unicorn hair. Then I acquired my father's wand." He swallowed here, and paused.

"Did you borrow his, as well?" Ollivander prompted, his brow furrowing.

"I killed him," Mallery said abruptly, his mouth tightening. His jaw ticked. Tom's heart beat faster in his chest. It seemed he was not the only one to have committed patricide. What was Mallery's excuse, he wondered? "Beat him in a duel. His wand switched allegiances fairly well. It was elm, dragon heartstring, and eighteen inches."

"Oh my," Ollivander said, his pale silver eyes, so similar to Draco's own, widening. "Well. Was that the last one you had?"

Draco shook his head, clearing his throat. "I lost it in a battle. I got another one, red oak and dragon heartstring, fourteen inches, and it was almost the perfect wand."

"Almost?" The wandmaker hedged.

"It was very responsive, but sometimes was reluctant to perform…". He trailed off, his eyes shifting to Hermione.

"Darker spells," Hermione finished for him with a frown. "Try to understand, Mister Ollivander — we are, neither one of us, dark wizards, but in our experience sometimes we've had to bend the rules a bit." Tom noticed that Draco's lips tightened and he glanced at Hermione with what looked suspiciously like concern. "It's important to be able to access all areas of magic to survive, sometimes, in war. The red oak wand worked well for Draco, but not well enough."

Mister Ollivander bowed his head, looking thoughtful, but not judgmental. "I see." He stood. "Let me go back to my storeroom — I have a few that I'd like you to try." He walked to the back.

As soon as he was gone, Draco fixed his sharp grey eyes on Hermione. "At your three o'clock, Granger," he said lowly.

Hermione hummed, fiddling with a paperweight on Ollivander's front desk; it was in the shape of a phoenix. "I see him. He's been following us since the pub."

Draco nodded. "You want to take care of that?"

Tom turned ever-so-subtly, pretending to look at a vase on Ollivander's desk. He glanced up, freezing as he spotted a dark-haired wizard across the street, smoking a pipe and periodically glancing at them through the window.

Hermione sighed, looking comically bored. "Why do I always have to investigate the shady stalker across the street?" she whined.

Draco outright laughed. "Oh, please. You're the one that just _has_ to investigate every little thing, and half the time it puts us in mortal peril. A dark shadow lingering at the edge of a cave in the Kazakhstani desert? Let's go look at it! A creepy old man following us through the canals of Venice? Let's stop and talk to him! Honestly, Granger, you bring this on yourself. Besides," he added, kicking at his crutch, "I'm not exactly at a hundred percent. And I'm not in possession of a wand." He looked over at Tom, and Tom did not at all like the slow grin that stretched across his face. "Take Riddle with you. He'll keep you safe."

Hermione scoffed. "He'll be luggage, Draco. I'd rather go alone."

Tom bristled. "Be that as it may," he said coldly, fixing her with a frigid stare, "I cannot let you go alone. If I were found out to have left you alone unaccompanied, I would be stripped of my Head Boy title and possibly expelled, if something ended up happening to you." He fingered his wand in the pocket of his trousers. "Sure, I'm not a trained soldier, but you'll find I'm not exactly a novice, either. Besides Mallery, you won't find a better person to watch your back." He straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the front desk. "Fancy some ice cream, Granger?"

Hermione tilted her head and smirked. "Fine. I could go for a cone of brimbleberry sherbet." She turned, nodded to Mallery, and exited the store.

On his way out, excitement churning in his belly, Mallery grabbed him by the sleeve. Tom looked down into startling eyes the color of polished chrome. "You better look after her, Riddle. Or I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life wishing you were dead."

Tom sighed. He certainly respected both Mallery and Granger as potential allies or foes, but _honestly._ "I don't enjoy being threatened, Mallery. Yet you and your pretty little friend are quite fond of it, especially in regards to me." He brushed Mallery's hand from his robes and looked at him coolly.

Mallery's return look was terrifyingly cold. "You'll find that idle threats are not synonymous with my name. Hermione's neither."

Tom smiled, feeling the rush of a challenge. "Mine neither, Mister Mallery. And keep in mind that this is _my_ school, _my_ home, _my_ city — believe me when I say that I can do as much damage to you as you as you can to me. So, if we're done posturing for the day…?"

Mallery just stared at him. "Not a scratch, Riddle."

"I'm pretty sure Granger can look after herself," Tom hissed menacingly. "But my future depends entirely upon my performance at Hogwarts, and I'm not about to let some brash, idiotic girl with a death wish ruin that for me." He yanked the door open and threw Mallery one last look of disdain. "Nothing will happen to her. You have my bloody word. Now please, find a wand before you become _completely_ useless."

Mallery grunted, whether in amusement or insult or a mixture of both, Tom couldn't tell. He let the door slam behind him, and relished the feeling of the chilly autumn wind on his face as he stepped into the crowd that milled through Diagon Alley, following the curly-haired girl with the blood red cloak towards the ice cream store. He couldn't help but think of Little Red Riding Hood.

Did that make him the big bad wolf, then?

"Granger!" he called out. "Wait up, would you?"

She stopped in the middle of the cobblestone street and looked back at him, her cheeks flushed with the wind and her eyes bright with the thrill of intrigue and adventure. "We haven't got all day, Riddle. Try to keep up."

He scowled and bumped her with his shoulder. She huffed and reached over to pinch his arm. He grabbed her hand, lightning fast, and yanked her to a stop.

"That permission thing goes both ways, you know," he said, using his grip to draw her up to her toes, forcing her to catch herself with her free hand against his chest. Merlin, she was warm. "Why don't you just say that touching you is off limits to begin with? Why have you put conditions with it, rather than just barring it completely?" He leaned down and skimmed his lips over the skin in front of her ear, and felt her tremble involuntarily against him. "Saying that you won't let me touch you without your _permission_ implies that you will eventually allow it." He pulled back to look into her eyes, bringing his free hand around to rest on her waist. "You need to be more decided when you make your rules. They need to be absolute. So, I can either touch you, or I can't. But putting the term _permission_ with it makes you seem coy."

Hermione pushed herself away from him with a burning glare. "Fine: you can't touch me. Ever. Is that clear enough?" she hissed.

Tom smiled at her slowly, watching in rapture as her chest heaved and her cheeks burned raspberry and amaranth. His lips tingled where they'd brushed her skin. "Crystal clear." He started walking, and as he passed her, he paused and leaned down. "The only thing is, I don't _believe_ it." He pulled back again, staring at her eyes, watching as panic and uncertainty flashed through the bright flecks of chestnut and mahogany. "And I have a hard time following rules when they aren't properly enforced." He skimmed a hand under her cloak, brushing the backs of his fingers against her stomach.

He pulled back, and brushed past her, his hands warm and tingling from where he'd touched her. He turned back when he noticed she wasn't following. "Well, are you coming or not?" he asked smartly. He looked over her shoulder quickly, noticing that the man that had been watching them was strolling casually their way, looking in the store windows as he passed. "Brimbleberry tends to sell out come noon. You won't want to miss your chance."

She merely looked at him, her face inscrutable, before pulling her cloak further around her to fight off the chill and hurrying after him, once again drawing near to his side. He internally purred in satisfaction. He was a patient man, when it came to most things. Though his cock was screaming at him to get on with it, to just fuck her up against the wall of the nearest side street, his brain was calculating just how much time and effort he would need to put forth in order to seduce Hermione Granger into his bed. It was more than just wanting her physically, of course; it was the desire to either have her on his side, totally loyal to him…or to get close enough that she would never see the killing blow as it fell to snuff out her life. What route he decided to take would depend entirely on her level of acquiescence — or resistance. He would have to determine that at a later time.

When they got to Florean Fortescue's, they went inside, shuffling around to avoid being pressed too far into the mass of people that were waiting to order. "Merlin," Hermione said lowly, looking around. He could see the panic of being confined into a small, crowded space flicker to life in her eyes. "Crowded much?"

Tom shrugged, and then scowled as someone bumped into his shoulder and two children squirmed by, stepping on his toes. "Apparently."

A couple with a small child came in behind them, pushing them further into the line. Tom somehow ended up pressed to Hermione's back, unable to move left or right as people crammed the space around them.

He leaned down to speak into her ear. "I'm starting to think that this wasn't worth it," he said, hissing in annoyance as someone else jostled him further into her back. With the desire running rampant through his veins, it was a _terrible_ idea for his groin to be almost flush against her arse. He tamped down his lust, focusing instead on peering out the windows. His eyes narrowed when he spotted the stalker lurking outside once again.

"Brimbleberry is always worth it," Hermione hummed, turning her head slightly so that he could hear her. Her ridiculous hair brushed his neck and chin, and the scent that he was starting to both anticipate and hate wafted into his nose. "And I see him too. He has gang tattoos on his hand. Can you spot them?"

Tom's nostrils flared. "If I look, it'll be too obvious. What do they look like?"

"Russian," she replied softly. "It's either Grindelwald, or, less likely, we've caught the eye of Anton Chekov."

Tom snorted. "The Russian mobster out of St. Petersburg?"

Hermione shrugged. "Those are the only things I can think of. Lao Feng wouldn't come over this far for a couple of escaped soldiers, and the Ministry wouldn't employ someone with gang affiliations."

Tom pressed forward, glaring at the people behind him as the crowded him farther into her lithe form. "Of course, the Ministry has some questionable contacts when you look behind the scenes. The British government isn't exactly squeaky clean."

"No, I suppose you're right." She smirked, and Tom battled with his own bodily urges as she shifted and her hip brushed his upper thigh. He swallowed.

They reached the front of the line, and Hermione looked back at him, her cheeks faintly pink. Whether it was from his close proximity or from the heat of the crowded shop he couldn't be sure, but he felt similarly flustered.

"What flavor do you want?" she asked.

"Chocolate."

She quirked her lips. "Just chocolate? Not mint chocolate chip, or chocolate banana, or chocolate peanut butter?" she teased.

He raised his eyebrows, staring down at her amusedly. "I'm a man of simple tastes, Hermione." He leaned down close to her ear. "I have rather… _basic_ desires."

She cleared her throat and turned away. "It's not working, you know."

Tom cocked his head. "What's not working?" he asked as she ordered them two ice creams on cones. They shuffled their way towards the exit, once again having to squeeze through dozens of people clamoring for the sweet treat.

They finally broke out of the shop and breathed the cool, fresh air of fall once more. "Your attempts to fluster me."

He chuckled, watching the Russian man from the corner of his eye. "You're a most convincing liar, Miss Granger, but not convincing enough, I'm afraid." He took her arm, and he counted it as a small victory when she didn't protest, merely walked with him down a narrow side street close to Knockturn Alley. He watched her peripherally as she began to methodically lick her cone of sherbet. He dug into his own to distract himself from the image of her pink lips and tongue caressing the scoop of bright purple as they would a lover.

He heard the sound of footsteps behind them. "Not a very subtle fellow, is he?"

He got no response. He felt her hand leave his arm, and when he looked to his right, she was gone.

He did not panic. He could still hear the slow footsteps of the man behind him, so he knew she hadn't been taken. She'd just…disappeared. And somehow he knew it was completely intentional.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Granger," he murmured lowly, scanning the area for any sign of her. He noticed a small crack in the wall, just enough for a thin person to fit into — he didn't look too closely, immediately catching on to her plan.

Whistling, he strode further down the alley at a leisurely pace and continued to snarf down his ice cream, watching as a rat skittered in front of his shoes. He sneered in disgust. "Bloody vermin," he muttered, kicking another one of the foul beasts out of his way.

Suddenly, as he reached the dead end of the alley, he felt a wand press into the base of his neck. He fingered his own, which sat in his pocket.

A low, gravelly voice with a heavy Russian accent spoke from behind him. "Where is the girl?"

Tom dropped what was left of his ice cream cone and turned, holding his hands up, knowing that he wouldn't be able to draw his wand quick enough before the man could hex him. "I'm not sure where she went," he said casually, looking into the man's dark eyes and smirking. "She's quite slippery, you know?"

"You are lying!" The man pressed his wand further into Tom's neck. The tip of the walnut twig burned a circle into the skin above his collarbone. He hissed. He was just about to knock the man's wand out of his hand when the magical tool went flying.

Hermione shimmered into being behind the Russian, dispelling her disillusionment charm and smiling as the spy whipped around in surprise. Tom took the opportunity to cuff him on the side of the head, and the man fell to his knees.

Hermione used her wand to flip the man flat on his back, and Tom thought he heard something crack. The spy groaned in pain. She pressed the heel of her boot into his neck, rendering him immobile.

She looked up to Tom. "Thanks for being the bait," she teased, grinning. The white shine of her teeth and the appearance of the dimple on her cheek and the flash of her bright eyes were like a sucker punch to the gut.

"Glad to know I make such a good damsel in distress," he replied dryly, rolling his eyes when she beamed even more. He leaned down and grabbed her knee, removing her foot from the man's throat. Her thigh quivered. He let his palm linger for a moment in the crook of her leg, before skimming his fingers over the puckered scars on her calf and removing his hand from her skin. He reached down and hauled the man up by his collar. The spy looked at them both hatefully.

"I'm not alone, you know," he said, his accent slurring his words. He spat at Hermione, and Tom felt rage rise in his chest as the spittle landed on her jaw. She slowly brought the sleeve of her cloak up to wipe it off; and then promptly punched the man in the cheek, causing the skinny wizard to crash back into Tom, who promptly took him by the arms and twisted them behind his back, relishing the grunts of discomfort as he bent the man's elbows farther than what was comfortable. Tom heard something crunch as her blow landed, and wasn't sure if it was from her bones breaking or the Russian's.

Hermione smiled at the man, patting his injured cheek. "I'm counting on it, _mudak,"_ she said lowly.

" _Suka,"_ he snarled, lunging out of Tom's grip — but Tom was much stronger than the scrappy little man, and held him back with minimal effort, especially considering the fact that Tom was almost positive that one of the spy's vertebra was damaged.

She said something in Russian, and Tom narrowed his eyes. So she was multilingual, as well. Just another thing to add to the stack of oddities that made up one Hermione Granger.

The man fought against Tom's grip again, and Tom sighed, rolling his eyes. "If you're quite finished riling him up…"

She cleared her throat. "Right. Sorry. Sometimes I get carried away." She patted the man on the cheek. "What is your name, _podonok?"_

He snarled, but did not answer. She rolled her eyes, and Tom thought he may have fallen in love with her a little bit when she pointed her wand at the scrawny Russian and muttered _"Imperio."_

That is, if Tom was capable of feeling love. But he wasn't, so it translated more into a heavy dose of respect and an even heavier dose of lust.

The man went still in his hold. Hermione cleared her throat. "Let's try this again. What is your name?"

The man looked to be struggling internally, but he still did not answer. He heaved in shaky breaths, and started to tremble in Tom's hold. Hermione sighed, and released him from her spell. She looked over the spy's shoulder and met Tom's dark eyes with her own. "He's under an Unbreakable Vow. He can't tell us anything. However," she continued, narrowing her eyes and stepping closer, slapping a hand over the man's mouth as he made to spit at her again. "Ah, yes. I thought I spied Grindelwald's mark on you," she murmured, her eyes lighting up with discovery as she used the tip of her wand to push his long, lank hair back from his ears. There, just behind his ear in faint grey ink, sat Grindelwald's infamous symbol. "Rather odd for old Gellert to put his brand on you where so many could accidentally see."

"Not really Grindelwald's style, unless he's staging an outright attack," Tom said, meeting her eyes. "Intentional, then?"

Hermione's laugh was low and hoarse and tasted of a sort of dark insanity that flitted across his tongue and then away again. Her eyes were hot and hard and wicked. "Oh, I think Grindelwald is fond of sending messages." She cocked her head, and then pressed her wand to the spy's chest. "How about a little message of our own?"

The man's black eyes widened. _"Chto vy —"_

" _Sanguifrigidum."_

Tom watched curiously as a pulse of sparkling silvery-blue light traveled from the tip of her wand into the man's chest. He shivered briefly, and then went still. "What did you do to me?" he asked, his accent thicker with his anxiety.

Hermione smiled sweetly, and then promptly handed him back his wand, stepping back and keeping her own pink one trained at his face. "Don't worry. You can return to your master and report back to him what you saw today — but unfortunately none of us will be going with you. I'm afraid you and your partner will have to disappoint him this time." She stepped aside, and motioned for Tom to let the man go.

He glared at her. Tom wasn't used to taking orders.

She winked at him, however, and the smirk on her face was entirely too sinful to resist. He dropped his hands from around the older man's arms, and the Russian stumbled forward, wincing as his injured back pained him. His eye socket and cheek were bruising rapidly from where Hermione had punched him.

He turned and stepped away from them, walking backwards with his wand arm outstretched in front of him, looking like a startled deer. When he got to the first bend in the alley, he turned and took off back towards Diagon Alley, hobbling as he rounded the corner.

Tom whirled on Hermione. "Why did you let him go?"

She turned her face up to look at him, cool determination and satisfaction gleaming in her eyes and showing in the lines on her face. "I spelled his blood to freeze," she said lowly. "He'll be dead in less than three hours."

Tom inhaled sharply, looking at her as hot desire and plain greed swept through his veins, pounding in his ears and making his vision hazy. _Mine,_ he thought. _Mine, mine, mine._ "And there isn't a countercurse?" he asked in a murmured tone.

"Oh, there is a countercurse," she verified, nodding and looking down the alley towards the direction the man had run in.

"Then won't Grindelwald be able to save him?" Tom asked frowning.

"Not likely," she answered, twirling her lovely wand through her fingers dexterously. "The spell is one of my own invention; therefore only I know the countercurse."

"A spell of your own invention," he repeated, staring at her as if in a trance. He moved towards her, backing her up until she was against the wall. He crowded her thin form up against the stone wall of the alley, putting one hand on the wall next to her head as the other proceeded to point his wand into the tender skin of her cheek. "I should turn you in to the Ministry," he murmured, flicking at a piece of her unruly hair with his wand. "You're far too dangerous to be roaming about the streets of England unchecked."

"Is that so?" she said, her voice husky. "Funny, because I feel the same way about you." She smiled up at him, and he felt her hand slip underneath his robes and her wand press against the base of his spine. She drew it teasingly up and down over his Oxford shirt, and he shuddered, narrowing his eyes. "You know, I know a spell that will wrap all the tendons in your back around your spine and squeeze it until the bones shatter," she mentioned casually; the nonchalant tone of her voice endeared her to him. "The only pitfall is that you have to have your wand in the _exact_ position when you want to cast it. Luckily, you've given me the perfect opportunity." She dug her wand in even deeper, and he grunted in discomfort. "It's a spell that I didn't invent, however, and I'm not quite sure if I remember the countercurse." She looked thoughtful. "You know, I might remember it, if I can think back to where I learned it in my fourth year of school…"

Tom ran the tip of his wand down the delicate skin of her throat, tracing it over her jugular, which he noticed was pulsing ever so slightly with her increased heart rate. "Would you really kill me, Hermione?"

Her eyes flashed with humor, and she smiled, bringing her lips up to trace the outer shell of his ear. He went rigid when he felt her tongue flick against his earlobe ever so briefly before she hovered her mouth over his ear, her breath warm and smelling like brimbleberry sherbet. "In a heartbeat, Tom."

Tom believed her. He pressed her more firmly against the wall, spearing his hands into her hair and pulling her head back to look at her face. "Then what's stopping you?" he asked, pressing his thumbs below her ears and flushing hot when her body trembled and went taut. His fingers and his wand were tangled in her hair. "Tell me, Miss Granger. Why don't you curse me right now and wash your hands clean of me? Hmm?"

Her eyes flashed with uncertainty, but it was gone in an instant, replaced with wry humor. She brought her free hand up to tap his chin with her pointer finger. "Because you're far too interesting a specimen to waste, Tom Riddle," she said, her eyes roving around his face before settling on his lips for a moment, licking her own subconsciously. He watched her little pink tongue trace the contours of her oddly perfect teeth, and wished it were his own. "And pretty, to boot."

He pulled back from her, frowning. He should have felt triumphant at the praise; but all he felt was a sort of discomfort and cold anticipation. Her gaze traveled back up to his eyes as she pushed off of the wall after him, withdrawing her wand from beneath his robes. The look in her eyes was not at all kind. Once again, he felt like he was under her microscope.

She scooted away from him and lifted up the neck of her shirt to slide her wand slowly and very purposefully under the strap of her brassiere, teasing him just as effectively as he had teased her. So she'd caught on to his game, had she?

"Besides," she continued, looking up at him through her lashes. "Somehow I get the feeling that you might give me the fight of my life if I were to try. And it's so much nicer being friends, don't you think?" She turned away, heading back down the dim, narrow street.

Tom cocked his head. "And are we friends, Hermione?" he asked, his voice thick with residual desire.

She looked back at him and waited for him to catch up to her before moving again. "Or something like that."

He smirked. "Glad to know I'm on your good side. Tell me, then: why do you have a problem with Rosier? I could practically taste your dislike for him yesterday morning at breakfast. Speaking of which — very bold move, a Gryffindor sitting in the snake pit. I'm not sure it's ever been done before."

Hermione shrugged. "I'm not buying in to this house rivalry thing," she said casually, daintily stepping over a random pile of grayish fabric and the host of rats that were gnawing at it. She looked unfazed. "I'm too old for that shit. It's beyond trivial. As for Rosier," she continued, successfully making him feel like a child for the first time _ever._ "He's brutish, and stupid, and I've met his like before," she murmured, looking up at him with haunted eyes. "Don't pretend you feel much different. He's a pawn, Tom. People like Lestrange and Nott and Mulciber are intelligent, independent, capable of making informed decisions. They fear you, and respect you, but they're in your little club because they want to be. Conan —" She stopped here, and smiled. "You should give him a bit more credit. He's the perfect tool. Unnoticeable, coolly logical, and wicked clever. He keeps his cards close to his chest, and excels at flying under the radar, but you'd do well to pay a bit more attention to him. He likes you. He's freethinking, but he looks up to you. You can use that."

Tom peered at her curiously as they stepped out into the light of Diagon Alley. "And Dolohov? I noticed you don't like him much, either, though you haven't interacted with him enough for me to really put my finger on it."

He barely noticed the twitch of her eye, but he still caught it. He'd have to look into that later. "Intelligent. Calculating. Loyal to you because he likes what you preach and practice and knows without a doubt that you are far more powerful than he. But he's without conscience. He has no boundaries."

"I like that he has no conscience," Tom countered, thinking of his menacing, dark-haired follower. "That can be useful."

Hermione shrugged. "Or that can be dangerous." She stopped suddenly and pointed to a child that walked past with his parents. "Kill him," she said bluntly.

"Beg pardon?" Tom asked, staring at her with a frown. Just what was she playing at?

"He bumped into you in the ice cream store," she said, shrugging and looking up at him with those entrancing eyes, now without the humor that he found so interesting. Now they were dead serious, and full of sadness, scorn and a certain amount of indifference. "You should kill him."

Tom scoffed. "Bumping into someone is hardly a death sentence, Granger," he said, shielding his eyes from the sun and staring after the little blond boy as he disappeared around the corner. "I fail to see your point regarding Antonin."

He jolted a bit when Hermione threaded her wrist through the crook of his elbow, but held it rigid as he escorted her back towards the wand store. "Dolohov wouldn't hesitate to kill that child, Tom, if he felt he could get away with it. Surely you know this."

Tom nodded. "Yes."

She lifted her right hand and gestured around them. "All of these people — imagine them dead. The buildings — imagine them destroyed. Get the image of blood running down walls and rats chewing on the dead bodies littering the stones. Imagine the silence of it all, and the rank smell of death." She looked at him askance. "Does it bother you?"

He shrugged. Might as well be honest. "Not particularly, no."

"That doesn't surprise me," she returned. "Now answer me this: do you _want_ it?"

His lips quirked down. "No. Doesn't exactly sound pleasant. And it seems pointless."

"It's not at _all_ pleasant. Not to mention senseless and unnecessary." She tightened her hold on his arm. "Now imagine Dolohov. Do you think he would feel the same?"

Tom frowned, seeing her point. "No."

"That's my problem with him," she said quietly, sincerely. "Dolohov wouldn't just not _mind_ it — he would relish in it. He would see it as an experiment; a chance to test himself, to see how many people he could kill and which methods cause the most pain. Violence for the sake of violence is an ugly, wretched thing. Rosier," she continued, stepping over a particularly large cobblestone, "is just naturally stupid and in possession of a nasty countenance. His arrogance is too obvious — not like the subtlety of the rest of your pureblood friends. He flaunts his name and title and oh-so-pure blood around like badges of honor, but he's magically inferior, intellectually lacking and in need of a serious lesson on _tact._ He's painfully juvenile." She paused. "Not to mention he looks at me like I'm a piece of meat. I don't care for it."

"Thoros looks at you the same way," Tom commented amusedly, ruminating on her observations of his Knights of Walpurgis.

"Yes, but Thoros is classy about it," she responded, her voice heavy with cynicism. "He was blessed with all the subtlety that Rosier was denied at birth. It's rather…refreshing," she continued. "Rosier fucks and discards, I imagine." Tom jolted at her use of such foul language, his ears burning and his cock twitching as such an ugly word left her pretty bowed lips. "I bet that Thoros first woos, _then_ fucks, then very slowly extracts himself from any commitment, all the while making the object of his affections feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. Girls likely spend weeks dreaming about him." She sneered. "Girls probably spend weeks _crying_ when they realize they've been so crassly used by Rosier."

Tom grinned, immensely pleased with her easy assessment of his followers. "I'm afraid to ask what you think of me."

Hermione smirked. "Oh, you're the worst of the lot," she said teasingly. "I can't even begin to describe you, Tom Riddle. There's far too much for me to sift through, and you're a lot harder to read than most."

He stopped in front of Ollivander's, conscious of the quicksilver eyes that had taken notice of them through the window. "Then you are having the same difficulty with me as I am having with you, Hermione Granger," he said, reaching up to roll a loose curl through his fingers before tucking it back behind one of her hairpins.

She leaned away from him, looking wary. Her eyes were guarded, but not hostile like they'd been before. He saw calculation there, and caution, and more than a little curiosity. And he was not oblivious to the way her eyes wandered his form when she thought he wasn't looking. Her attraction for him was palpable — but strangely conflicted. But what, exactly, was she afraid of?

"Draco says I'm an open book," she murmured, looking a bit dazed before brushing past him and opening the door to the shop.

He entered after her. "Yes, but _Draco_ has known you for years. I've known you for barely two weeks. I haven't had the time to learn the nuances of your expressions yet."

Mallery stood upon their reentrance, looking Hermione over and patting her curls in a gesture that was so comfortable and familiar that Tom's teeth literally _ached._ The blond looked over in his direction. "It's all in the eyes, Riddle," he drawled, looking at Hermione fondly. "But even then. You know I actually had to teach her to not wear her heart on her sleeve all the time like a bloody idiot?" he said, his cheek dimpling as he smiled at his childhood friend.

Hermione scowled. "I _wasn't_ that bad," she said, her voice holding tones of stubbornness and petulance that had both Tom and Mallery sharing a look. Once again, despite their dislike for each other, they seemed to be on the same wavelength. "Did you find a wand?" she asked eagerly.

Ollivander came striding into the front room, looking triumphant. He handed Mallery a piece of parchment, and smiled over at Hermione and Tom. "Took him four tries, but we found a nice match," the old wandmaker said. "Just sign at the bottom, Mister Mallery — it's just to verify that I've received payment for the wand, and it goes into Ministry records so that they know who it belongs to if you were to become separated. I hope it will serve you well for many years."

Tom felt Hermione flinch next to him, and saw her hand tremble. Moisture welled in her eyes before it was wicked away by her thick eyelashes. That was when he remembered that Mallery was basically living out a death sentence. Tom had charmed the details of Mallery's condition from Madam Soranus — the pale boy wouldn't likely live to see the New Year.

Draco smiled at Ollivander and shook the man's hand, outwardly unaffected. "I appreciate it, sir. You have a wonderful day."

"See you this Thursday, Mister Ollivander," Hermione said, her voice strong and her eyes dry.

"I won't forget!" the older wizard said with a wave. He nodded his goodbyes to Tom, and the three exited the store, stepping into the cool air and basking in the warmth of the sun.

Draco laid a comforting hand on Hermione's shoulder, but she quickly shrugged it off and gave him a warning look. "Well," she said sternly. "Let's see it, then."

Mallery sighed and looked up to the sky. "Can't we find some food, first?" he grumbled grumpily. "I need to eat. I'm feeling faint."

Tom smirked as Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. Pansy."

Tom might've missed the way they both stiffened for a moment, their eyes seeking out the cobblestones. Hermione was the first to shake off whatever odd trance they'd been under within seconds. She looked expectantly at Tom. "Show us the way, oh fearless leader," she said, giving him a shallow bow. Then it was his turn to roll his eyes. He turned and headed back down towards Fortescue's, bypassing it in favor of the little cafe across the street. The name on the sign read "The Quivering Quill" and it's whole front was a wall of windows, revealing the many patrons within.

Mallery spoke up as Tom opened the door. "The Quivering Quill, the Leaky Cauldron…what's next, the Angry Bludger?" he muttered, clutching tiredly at his crutch as he stepped over the threshold.

Tom could not help but chuckle. Hermione grinned, catching his eye. "I was thinking that the Harping Howler had a nice ring to it."

"Nice one, Hermione," Draco said, smiling. "Do you remember Molly's howler to me a couple of years ago?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with humor that Tom hadn't seen him express; it look odd on his face. He had a visage that was prone to seriousness and anger. Laughter made the lines around his eyes smooth out, and he looked younger and more carefree.

Hermione giggled. "Draco Lucius Mallery!" She imitated, putting her hands on her hips. "How _dare_ you leave this safe house without telling anyone where you're going! You'll be the _death_ of me, you foolish, thoughtless child! You get back here _this instant!"_

Mallery laughed. "That is a frighteningly accurate impression, Hermione. Please, never do it again."

Granger giggled, and the sound was…odd. Light and tinkling and not at all like the throaty laugh he'd heard before, the one that always seemed to drip with cynicism and scorn. This was different. It was born of true, light-hearted amusement.

The fact that it was Draco Mallery that had managed to draw it from her made Tom inexplicably irritated. Knowing that they both had this history – this connection forged from years of friendship and braving danger together – made Tom's blood boil, because he could never have that with her.

He imagined her as she was then, only with him. He imagined that sort of familiarity between them, imagined the little glances and touches that they would share. It was fascinating, how she and Mallery could speak volumes with their eyes alone – how they could understand each other with a single glance. That sort of connection was a rare thing to behold, and Tom wondered, suddenly, if they had slept together.

The thought came unbidden to his mind, and he saw red for a moment before coming back to his senses.

 _Foolish,_ he thought. _You're being foolish. She is_ _ **nothing**_ _– just another useful trinket to add to your collection._

In fact, he wanted both of them. Granger and Mallery, by his side, among his Knights – they would be a powerful addition. Of course, Mallery was dying, so perhaps not him…besides, the handsome blond was a suspicious sort, and Tom was well aware that the other man did not like him.

It had nothing to do with petty jealousy, as it was with many of the other males that disliked him – no, Mallery had plenty of looks and plenty of confidence to go with them; in fact, he might have been the most attractive person Tom had ever seen, save himself. It was something deeper, and more fundamental. And in addition, Tom was almost certain that Draco could sense his attraction to his best friend, and he was protective of her. The seriousness with which he'd charged Tom with her safety earlier in Ollivander's had been very serious indeed.

All in all, Mallery was an intense sort of fellow, and Tom knew that as long as the other boy was around, his access to Hermione might be somewhat…limited.

Good thing, then, that he wouldn't likely make it to Yule _._

"Table for three, dears?"

Tom looked up. He smiled at the hostess who was addressing them. "Oh hello, Mrs. Diggle. How are you on this fine morning?"

Mrs. Diggle, an aging, portly woman with a shock of red hair, looked at him in wonder. "Tom? Tom Riddle? Is that you?"

"In the flesh, Madam," he replied with a fake smile, tolerating it when she came over to pat him on the cheek. He didn't curse her to hell and back because, well, they were in public. Otherwise…

"Oh Tom, it's so good to see you again," she said fondly. "It feels like I haven't seen you in ages. And look how you've grown! You must be a foot taller than last I saw you!"

As she fawned over Tom, he met Hermione's eyes. She and Mallery both looked far too amused, and he narrowed his eyes at them. "You just saw me this past July, Mrs. Diggle – surely I can't be that much taller?"

The inane woman giggled again. "Oh, Tom. How I've missed you. I'll have to tell my husband that you're here – he'll want to come visit with you, of course. And would you like a booth or a table?"

"A booth please, Madam," he replied, rolling his eyes when she turned her back to grab three menus. "Preferably one towards the back. And is Marian still working here?"

"Oh yes, dear, our lovely Marian is still here," Mrs. Diggle said, winking at him. "Shall I send her out to be your waitress today?"

"Please."

"Ooh, she'll be just _delighted_ to see you," she said, motioning for them to follow her. She made no move to inquire after his two companions – which was just as well, because it would just delay her removal from their company even further.

The middle-aged woman walked them briskly back to the far corner booth, laying their menus out for them on the table covered in a long white tablecloth. The booth was covered in red and blue striped fabric, and shielded from anyone who might want to spy on them through the windows. Predictably, Granger scooted in and Mallery sat next to her, leaving Tom to sit on the other side of the booth. His knees brushed hers under the table, and he saw her very purposefully sit at an angle to avoid further contact. He smiled.

"She'll be right with you, dear Tom," Mrs. Diggle said with a cheery smile, and then left their table, heading back towards the front.

"She's…energetic," Mallery said, his eyebrows climbing up on his forehead. "Wouldn't you agree, dear Tom?"

Hermione burst out laughing, and Tom scowled. He leaned forward. "Shall I make it a point to introduce you to her? I'm sure she'd be just pleased as punch to meet you, Mallery. And then you'll be 'dear Draco'. Come now, it won't take but a minute," Tom said, moving as if to stand up.

Mallery shook his head, looking reluctant. "All right, point taken. I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

Tom smirked. "That's what I thought. Now, let's see your new wand, shall we?"

Draco reached into his coat pocket and pulled it out. It was of a very dark wood, a dusky brown in color that bordered on black. It was simple, with a series of striated grooves as the only handle.

"Blackthorn and dragon heartstring, fourteen inches," Draco said, staring at it with an odd expression on his face. "Seems odd, for it to feel so familiar in my hand – after having used so many that weren't quite right."

"Well you've blown through five wands, Draco," Hermione said, holding her hand out. Mallery placed his wand in her hand without hesitation, a sign of immense trust that Tom could not even _fathom._ He would never hand his wand over so willingly. "Only one of them, the first one, was even given specifically for you. This is the first wand in five years that actually chose you from a store. Of course it feels unfamiliar. I imagine this one will actually _work._ "

"And by work, you mean it will be able to cast dark curses without hesitation," Tom said, tilting his head. It was not a question.

Draco stared at him with those unnerving metallic eyes, and smirked. "Precisely. Would you like to be my test subject? Just to make absolute sure that I can cast the Unforgiveables without any trouble, of course."

"Of course," Tom murmured with soft smile. "Only those three?"

"Oh no, I've got quite the collection of nasty curses I could throw your way," Mallery continued, fingering his new wand when Hermione gave it back to him. "Most of them discovered or invented by my brilliant friend here, mind you." He jerked his head towards Granger.

"I do love a good dark curse," she said, winking at Tom. "In fact, Draco, our little spy friend is on his way back to Grindelwald now, under the effects of what will probably prove to be a very strong blood-freezing curse."

Draco shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Bloody disgusting, Granger." His brow furrowed. "You're sure it was Grindelwald?"

"His symbol was tattooed beneath the spy's ear," Tom drawled, picking up the water that had magically appeared in front of him. "I'd say there's reasonable evidence."

"Good morning!"

Tom turned, and smiled slowly at the blushing waitress that had sidled up to their table. She was looking at Tom with something like complete devotion. Tom hid his disgust with a look of polite interest. "Hello, Marian. Nice to see you again. Doing well?"

She swallowed, and fiddled with the end of her long brown braid. "Yes, of course. No complaints. And how about you? Are you excited to be finishing up school soon?"

"Anxious to be done with it," he answered. He winked at her, and her doe-brown eyes flashed with pleasure. High spots of color burned on her lily-white cheeks. "I hear you're going to be our server today. Marian, these are my two friends and fellow classmates, Draco Mallery and Hermione Granger," he introduced.

Tom watched with interest as the slim, pretty girl took notice of Mallery for the first time, and something within him twanged in displeasure as she blushed even further, staring at Mallery as if she'd just found God. It wasn't jealousy, per say – merely the discomfort that came with the realization that he was no longer the only devastatingly good-looking man on the streets. But that was fine. Tom wasn't worried. He had something that Mallery didn't have – years of contacts in Britain, and flawless charisma. Mallery was charming, certainly, and obviously knew the ins and outs of social graces, but he did not inspire like Tom did. He was too cold, and he wasn't interested, as Tom was, in faking warmth.

Mallery smiled at the waitress, and took her slender hand in his own, kissing the knuckles. "It's a pleasure."

Tom saw how her hand trembled. Stupid, foolish, flighty girl.

Hermione reached across Draco and shook Marian's hand. "It's so nice to meet you, Marian. You're as delightful as Tom promised us you were."

Tom maintained his composure, but only barely.

"I…oh." Marian blushed, wiping her sweaty hands on her apron. "Well thank you, Tom," she said shyly.

"Of course," he said graciously, finding Hermione's foot with his own under the table and pressing down on her toes. He saw her jerk in discomfort. "I just knew we had to come here for lunch today, and I mentioned that you were an excellent waitress."

"He raved about you, really," Hermione added cheerily, and her eyelid twitched as Tom reached down under the tablecloth and dug his fingers into the warm skin of her thigh.

He ignored the fact that his middle finger was just at the lacy edge of her delicate stocking, and that the tip of his pointer finger was up against her velvet garter, and that the bare skin of her thigh was decidedly _hairless._ Which was odd. Odd, and utterly arousing. He'd heard rumors of muggle girls across the Atlantic doing something similar – shaving the hair from their legs to simulate the look of stockings, since all nylon was being used in the war – but never had it occurred to him that it might be so _appealing._

"Well, I'm so flattered," Marian said, rolling up onto the balls of her feet and folding her hands together in front of her. She was once again gazing at Tom with that adoring expression, except this time it was _hopeful_ , as well. "Erm, have you three decided what you'd like to eat?"

Hermione looked over to Tom, triumph in her eyes. She seemed to be actively ignoring the fact that his hand was clamped around her leg. "What's good, Tom?" she asked coyly, smirking.

"Everything on their brunch menu is delicious, Hermione," he said, emphasizing the word "delicious" and watching in satisfaction as she swallowed. "However, I tend to go with the Quill plate, which is basically your complete breakfast – eggs, toast, sausage, pancakes. That is, if you're that hungry. Otherwise, the eggs benedict is good." To punctuate his statement, he swept his thumb along the crease of the back of her knee in a firm stroke, smoothing over the delicate material of her stocking. She jolted, and that's when she finally reacted – she reached down and slammed her hand onto his wrist, digging her nails into his skin. Once again, the skin of her palm was unusually hot.

He slid his finger under the strap of her garter and snapped it gently, laughing internally when her leg jumped, and then pulled his hand away, bringing it back to his lap. Little indents riddled his skin where her nails had dug into his flesh. The slight pain was exquisite, combined with the lingering heat of her palm and the soft feel of her flesh that was now forever imprinted on his memory.

"I'll have the eggs benedict," Hermione ground out, never looking away from Tom, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes that burned with flecks of topaz and auburn.

"Excellent choice," Marion said, too dense to notice the tension at the table. "And for you, Mister Mallery?"

"Call me Draco, please," the blond said with a smile.

"All right, er, Draco," Marian said, smiling nervously.

"I'll take the Quill plate _and_ the eggs benedict," he said.

"Oh wow, you must be hungry," Marian said with a tremulous smile.

"Very," Draco agreed. "And two coffees – Hermione needs one as well."

Granger looked away from Tom long enough to elbow Draco in the ribs. "Are you implying that I get _cranky_ when I don't have caffeine?" she said sourly.

"Oh, I'm not _implying_ anything," Draco said with a quick grin.

She grumbled. "Cream and sugar, too, if you will, Marian," she said, grimacing. "He is right."

Marian smiled. "You two seem so close. Did you grow up together? I thought I'd heard that you came from China? You're the talk of the town, you know."

Hermione and Draco both smiled tightly, and Tom sensed the atmosphere shift to one of discomfort. He spoke up.

"They did come from China, Marian," he said abruptly. "And are long-time friends, as well. I'll have the Quill plate, as usual, and a cup of Earl Grey."

Marian seemed to get the message, and she nodded. "All right, I'll just go tell the kitchen – and let Mister Diggle know you've come back to visit us, Tom. I'm sure he'll be most eager to visit with you, as long as the kitchen doesn't stay this busy." She turned with one last awkward look at Draco, and flounced back towards the kitchen.

"Here's to hoping the kitchen stays slammed," Tom muttered. He looked around, hoping that the crowd in the popular little café would continue to remain strong.

"Aw, Tom, but they all seem like such nice people," Hermione whined playfully. "And I didn't see a wedding band on Marian's finger – she's obviously unattached, and fancies the pants off of you."

Tom hissed at her. "That wasn't at all funny, Granger, what you just pulled back there."

Hermione only grinned at him.

"So," he said, moving on. "This project for Potions that Slughorn announced on Thursday morning – since you and Flynn are the only other pair in the class that are as proficient at brewing as Nott and myself, I figured the four of us should join up. He did say four to a group."

Hermione's eyes flashed in discomfort. "I…suppose that would work."

"You suppose?"

She cleared her throat. "I've brewed Polyjuice before many a time – I've gotten used to doing it, it's just tedious and takes quite a bit of time. Fire protection potion is a breeze. Amortentia is a bit of a challenge, though not terrible, and the antidote is even simpler. The Draught of Living Death, of course, will be the most difficult."

"I think we can manage," Tom said. "So you've brewed Polyjuice before, have you?"

"I've brewed all of them before," Hermione said haughtily. "I just have the most…memories…surrounding Polyjuice."

Draco looked sour, suddenly. "Don't think I haven't forgotten about second year, Granger."

"Oh come off it," she scoffed, nudging her friend in the shoulder. "You didn't even know. For years, you never knew that we'd tricked you with it –"

"Yes, until you saw fit to reveal to me in a fit of laughter years later that you had brewed it in the fucking _lavatory_ –"

"Wait a moment," Tom said, holding up his hand. "You mean to say that you brewed Polyjuice as a second year? Successfully?" He stared at her, awaiting her answer. For surely not. Of course, Tom imagined that he could have figured it out at that age, if he'd been so inclined, but…Tom was _extraordinary._ It was not his ego speaking – he was one of just a handful of people on the planet that might have been able to brew Polyjuice potion as a _twelve year old –_

And then he remembered that in China they started school at age ten, and so she would have been eleven.

Fascinating.

Disturbing, too.

Hermione shrugged. "Like I said, it wasn't particularly hard – just tedious and time-consuming. But, back to the Potions project. Shall I take it to Raven, see what she thinks?"

"Please do," he confirmed. "Don't forget that we have to pick a sixth potion to do, and have to collect the ingredients for ourselves."

"Any thoughts on that?" she asked.

"A couple. What do you think?"

"You should be asking Draco," she said, jerking her head to the left. "He's quite the brewer. It's the only subject in school that he leveled with me grade wise, and it came far more naturally for him, too."

Mallery scowled. "Yes, thanks ever so for reminding me of the fact that you beat me in practically everything in school."

"Tell me, Hermione, is there anything you _don't_ do well?" Tom asked, his voice low.

"Flying," Draco blurted out, before she could answer. "She's rubbish at flying. Can't even get a broom five feet off the ground. She'll get on a thestral, though –"

"– or a dragon, let it be said that that was _my_ idea –"

"– yes, Hermione, fine, the stupid dragon – you know I wasn't even _there_ for that, I was too busy being my badass self spying for you lot –"

"– oh please, Draco, you –"

"– so I'm not even sure if I _believe_ that story –"

"How could you not believe it? There were multiple eyewitness accounts, surely not all of them were _lying –"_

Tom held his hands up, and, surprisingly, they both stopped and turned to look at him. Their eyes were wide, like they'd almost forgotten he was there.

Tom felt a bit…overwhelmed. They'd gone from potions, to brooms, to thestrals, and now dragons? They'd ridden a _dragon?_

"What about riding a dragon?" he asked quietly, aware that his face reflected his bemusement.

"Er – yeah," Granger said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Ukrainian Ironbelly – we were just..."

"Escaping," Draco finished. "Because what better way to get out of one of the most well-guarded places in the Orient than to fly out on the back of a bloody dragon?"

Tom raised his eyebrows. Hermione shrugged. "It worked, didn't it?" She cleared her throat, and looked at Draco. "Let's change the subject."

"Let's not," Tom said commandingly, his curiosity flaring to life. "I'd like to hear the rest."

Mallery had shut down completely. He looked at Tom dispassionately, all trace of humor and playfulness gone from his face. The transformation was instant. "The rest is classified. We were incredibly foolish to have brought it up."

Tom looked at them suspiciously, pursing his lips. "And why, exactly, would it be classified? China is quite far from here," he said silkily.

Mallery looked back at him coolly, unfazed. "Not as far as you might think."

"We were careless just now," Granger said softly. "Living in such a peaceful place, even for such a short time, has lulled us into a sense of security."

"False security," Draco said, his jaw clenched. "We might have left China behind, but I get the feeling Britain is just waiting to explode. Especially with Grindelwald's spies roaming the streets."

Hermione turned to Draco and said something in Mandarin, and Tom narrowed his eyes, irritated, as Draco responded. Never before had Tom thought it necessary to know more than English and French and a bit of German. Now he was seriously regretting having not learned as many languages as possible.

Hermione turned gratefully towards the table as a house elf delivered two coffees and a cup of Earl Grey to the table. Tom looked on in bemusement as she thanked the little elf kindly, to which it squeaked in surprise and popped away from the table hurriedly.

She lifted the cup of coffee to her nose and sniffed, closing her eyes in rapture. He watched carefully as she set it back down and poured perhaps a teaspoon's worth of cream in it, no sugar, and lifted it back up to her lips. Mallery took his coffee the exact opposite: no cream, two sugars.

"Well, aren't you going to fix yours?" Hermione asked, nodding to the cup of tea in front of him.

"I don't take anything in my tea," he said tightly, smiling politely at her.

"No milk?" Mallery said, his lips twitching. "What kind of a Brit are you?"

"The kind that doesn't like milk in his tea, apparently," Hermione said, frowning at Draco. "Leave off, Draco. I don't like milk in my tea, either."

"Yes, and it's bloody weird," the blond said back, shaking his head.

She rolled her eyes and looked to Tom. "A good cup of Earl Grey shouldn't be tainted by milk. Only a bit of sugar, or honey, if you're feeling the need for a bit of sweetness."

Tom raised his cup to her in salute. It was odd, how his heartbeat stumbled at the realization that they had something so trivial in common. "Precisely." He looked to Mallery. "Do you drink tea, Mister Mallery?"

Draco grunted. "I used to. Once I was introduced to the wonders of the coffee bean I had no reason to go back," he said, breathing in the strong smell of his drink and sipping at it carefully.

"You're welcome," Hermione said drily, smiling sardonically at her companion. Mallery merely rolled his eyes.

"I've only had coffee once. It was dreadful," Tom said conversationally, ignoring Marian when she returned with their food, a house elf at her side to assist her. He was aware that she set their plates down intentionally slowly, obviously wanting him to acknowledge her – he did not. Best to nip that little misunderstanding in the bud as quickly as possible. Granger was the only one to smile and thank the girl, and Marian looked a bit put out. Just as well.

"It takes some getting used to, if you've only ever had tea," Mallery responded mildly, looking at his two plates and rubbing his hands together greedily. Tom shook his head in amusement. "And it can be done wrong, whereas tea is much harder to mess up. Coffee beans can be roasted too long, or not enough, and can be brewed too strong or too weak. You'd be surprised at how many coffee haters simply haven't had good coffee." He paused. "Granger makes a decent pot of coffee. Give her a French press and let her work her magic, and you won't regret it."

"The secret, Tom, is how recently your beans have been roasted," she said, taking a sip. "That's the biggest factor that affects how good your coffee ends up." She took a bite of her eggs benedict, and closed her eyes in pleasure, licking a spare crumb from her top lip. "You're right, this is _delicious."_

He smiled at her attempt to use his own idea against him. The thing was, Tom didn't unsettle that easily. Sure, sometimes she made him uncomfortable in a different way – in the sense that he was in a certain amount of unexpected danger while in her presence – and he was certainly aroused by her, but he was not so easily embarrassed or made uncomfortable by sexual matters. And for all of her confidence, he got the feeling that she was not anywhere close to being as experienced as he was in the realm of carnal knowledge.

"I'm glad you like it," he said, his voice lowering as desire flushed hotly through his bloodstream. When Mallery made to grab for the check that Marian had dropped by the table, Tom snatched it, simultaneously taking a bite of his pancakes. "I insist."

"We're perfectly capable of paying our way, Riddle," Draco said, eyes narrowed.

"I'm well aware," Tom said, thinking back to the handful of galleons that Granger had laid on the bar at the Leaky. "However, Hermione quite generously bought my ice cream, and I seek to repay the favor."

"Be that as it may," Hermione said, summoning the check from his hand with a wiggle of her fingers, "you were kind enough to bring us here to Diagon Alley today, and also made very convincing bait for our little Russian friend earlier – agreeing to put yourself in danger for the sake of my curiosity. So, let us buy you brunch. We insist."

They both smirked at him, and he clenched his teeth, but shrugged anyway, conceding. "Fine. If you so desire."

They finished the rest of their meal making idle conversation – talk about politics, and the need for a werewolf registry (a thing to which Hermione was adamantly opposed), and quidditch (a subject that only mildly interested Tom – he could play fairly well, but elected to devote himself to other things), which made Draco's eyes shiny with interest and Hermione's dull with boredom. Never again did the subject dip into their excursions in China, and Tom, reluctantly, elected not to push his luck.

After lunch – and an annoyingly elaborate escape from Marian and the Diggles – they went to Eeylops Owl Emporium to get Draco an owl. There was one that stuck out in particular: a massive female eagle owl, unusual in a common owl shop. Mallery struck Tom as someone who liked to have the best of everything, and, predictably, he bought the owl for twenty-one galleons (bloody absurd) and named her Cinnamon (Tom couldn't help but think of Hermione's eyes).

Tom looked at his watch. It was half past one. "All done?" he said as they stood out on the street.

Hermione looked at Mallery. "Draco?"

The blond shrugged. "Can't think of anything else that I might need. Doubt I'll be able to ever ride a broom again," he said, looking dejected.

"You don't know that for certain," Hermione said softly, looking concerned. Mallery nodded, but didn't look convinced.

"Back to Hogwarts, then?" Tom said, squinting as the bright sunshine hit his eyes.

Hermione nodded, and strode back towards the Leaky Cauldron. "We floo back into Hogsmeade, correct?"

"Right," he confirmed, falling into easy step with his two odd companions. "Though any can floo out of the Headmaster's study with his permission, only he can floo back in. Same with all of the teachers' quarters."

"Makes sense," Hermione murmured, subtly scanning the streets for any sign of trouble. He noticed that Mallery did the same.

He opened the door to the pub for both of them, and he noticed that Mallery went in first, facing forward, and Hermione followed, twirling gracefully so that she could keep an eye on the street, not wanting her back to be exposed. Tom looked back as well as he closed the door behind them, automatically on alert now that he had first-hand encountered one of Grindelwald's spies. One of many, he suspected.

Hermione waved at Tom the barman as they strode towards the floo, and the nearly toothless man waved back eagerly. Mallery nodded to the older man, and Tom did the same, still bitter about sharing a name with someone so _unremarkable._

Someday, when the world was ready for it, they would know him by a different name.

Hermione handed him the pot of floo powder, and instead of taking it from her palm he cupped the back of her hand with his own and grabbed a handful of the silvery sand. Her hand was so very small compared to his own.

Her eyes flashed in warning. "I trust you'll remove your person from the fireplace before one of us comes crashing into you?"

"I trust you'll wait more than two and a half seconds before following?" he said acidly.

Her eyelid twitched. "Why ever so, when our collision this morning was so _delightful?"_ she said sardonically.

"My thoughts exactly," he replied lowly, his eyes serious, disregarding her sarcasm and responding to the comment at face value. He removed his hand from hers, and moved past her to throw the powder into the fireplace. He stepped up into the green flames, looked at his two companions one more time, and shouted "Three Broomsticks Inn."

Draco came in after him this time, his face expressionless but his body language indicative of extreme displeasure towards Tom – once again, his protectiveness of his female friend was palpable.

When Hermione spun through and stepped regally out of the fireplace like a queen exiting a stagecoach, head held high, Tom turned and moved towards the front door, nodding at the inn's owner, Mister Darrel Dodworth. The balding innkeeper nodded back, familiar with Tom and his status as Head Boy.

Outside, a carriage was waiting for them in a side alley, two thestrals standing there patiently. Predictably Hermione went to pat them both on the nose. Tom ignored them, as did Draco, and the two clambered into the carriage, followed by the frustratingly mysterious Granger, whose scent teased his nostrils as she bent her head low to avoid hitting it on the roof of the cart. She sat next to Mallery, who looked a little worse for wear.

"Feeling all right, Mallery?" Tom asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Well enough," the other boy said hoarsely, though he grunted softly when the carriage started moving and trundled over the haphazardly lain cobblestones. "Just in need of some potions and a bit of a nap, I think."

Tom's nostrils flared when Hermione reached down and clasped his hand in her own, and Draco reciprocated by squeezing her fingers. They remained hand in hand for the rest of the trip up to the castle.

"I heard a rumor that you're soon to get your own quarters," Tom said, more sharply than he'd intended, still irked over the familiarity with which they touched. "I believe they'll be across the hall from the hospital wing, so that you won't be far if you need Madam Soranus for anything."

Draco nodded. "She mentioned something similar to me last night. I'll be grateful for the privacy, to be honest. Hospital wing is a bit too…heavily trafficked for my liking."

Tom smiled. "I can imagine. I'm lucky I have my own quarters, as well. Being Head Boy does have its perks."

Hermione frowned, looking thoughtful. "I didn't know you had a separate suite as a Head." She paused, and looked to Draco. "Odd."

"Why is it odd?" Tom asked, cocking his head and leaning back into his seat.

She cleared her throat. "Just seems strange that they would give a seventeen-year-old boy – however responsible he may seem – his own quarters. Given certain…teenage proclivities."

The delicacy with which she worded it amused Riddle; it was odd, seeing as how she was improbably blunt with almost everything else. She'd talked about Gavin and Thoros fucking their way through the Hogwarts student population with ease, but when it came to _him_ she was suddenly shifty and indirect.

Perhaps he would take a page from her book, then, and speak plainly.

"You're wondering how many women I've brought back to my rooms to fuck?" he said dryly, one eyebrow rising.

She blushed. Once again, he realized that it only made her uncomfortable when it was associated with him. He didn't know whether to be flattered, or irritated. Maybe a little of both.

"That's not at all what I said," she said snappishly. Mallery was struggling not to snigger. "I was merely making a statement on the fact that the libido of the average teenage boy is bordering on insatiable. It seems incredibly irresponsible to give one access to his own private space. Unless warranted by extenuating circumstances, such as Mallery's," she added, looking delightfully uneasy.

"The whole point of having a Head Boy and Girl is to select members of the student body that can be _trusted,"_ Tom said pointedly. "I find myself disinclined to do anything to break that trust. So I have not, as you say, acted on my _insatiable_ libido within my dorms." He paused for effect, and then met her eyes. "I find other suitable places to satisfy my baser urges."

They pulled up to the castle just as her mouth parted and her cheeks blazed with embarrassment. Mallery was outright laughing, shaking his head as he climbed out of the carriage with a little less grace than he had gotten in it, due to his exhaustion. Tom hopped out, and turned to offer a hand to Granger; she batted it aside and swung out agilely on her own. She glared at him with mean, hot eyes.

"You are abusing your position of power by luring unsuspecting women to their doom," she hissed.

"Their _doom?_ Don't be dramatic," he said with an eye roll, walking with her up to the front doors behind Mallery, who was still grinning. "My seduction of them has nothing to do with my Head Boy status, and you know it. They hardly need persuading. Besides, I'm not a total cad, like some of the men I know – I limit my dalliances to the same girls, who are always more than willing to oblige."

She stopped in her tracks, looking suspicious. "That makes no sense, because I would have heard about it. Women are practically falling all over themselves to get you to even _notice_ them. No girl in this school would ever be able to keep their encounters with you a secret."

"They hardly have a choice," he said lowly, watching as Mallery paused up ahead, leaning against the doorframe and waiting for them, looking totally unconcerned by their conversation.

Realization filled her eyes. "You _Obliviate_ them?" she asked, looking scandalized. "That's _awful!"_

He smiled. "I'm protecting myself. I'd have some girl snapping after my hand in marriage in a heartbeat, despite my humble beginnings. Believe me."

She still looked displeased. "You better not _ever_ try that memory wiping shit with me, Riddle," she said hotly, crossing her arms. "I have a trap mind."

He cocked his head; he'd never met anyone with a trap mind, only heard about them. He wasn't even entirely sure that they existed, until now. " _Very_ interesting. Although that sounds like a challenge," he said haughtily, enjoying the ire in her eyes. "But no." He grabbed a handful of her cloak and tugged, watching the way the cords around her throat tightened against her skin. She swallowed. "When I seduce you, Miss Granger, you _will_ remember it afterwards," he murmured, letting go of her cloak and reaching up to set the fabric straight around her neck. His knuckles brushed her jugular, and he felt the unusual heat of her skin and the fast pulse of her blood pumping from her heart through to her arteries.

She sniffed, looking equal parts angry, terrified, and cautious. He did not miss the second of desire that flared in her eyes, however. His inner demon purred in satisfaction.

Turning, he left her there, taking two strides before he felt her small hand curl around his bicep. The muscle flexed of its own accord, and he turned his head slightly to look at her. Her eyes blazed with anger, swirling with tones of russet and tiger's eye and shadowy brown.

"You presume too much, Tom Riddle," she snarled quietly, her normally sweet visage cold and hard and, dare he say, rather menacing. That was all she said, before she pulled away, sniffed disdainfully, and moved ahead of him. He watched her go.

"Do I?" he murmured, enjoying the sway of her hips and the swish of her cloak as she made a beeline for the door. She faltered, and he knew she'd heard him. She did not turn back, only reached the doors and slipped through, brushing by Draco; the blond looked back at him, his eyes narrowed, before stepping through after her.

Whistling, his hands in his pockets, Tom strolled through the doors after them, feeling the thrill of a challenge settle low in his gut, tangling with the tendrils of desire and insatiable intrigue that stirred hotly in his stomach.

* * *

oooo

Grindelwald stared in mounting horror as the man before him became caught in what were the unmistakable throes of death.

The Russian fell from his chair to the floor, his fingers scrabbling at the carpet as he began to heave shaky, unsteady breaths. He was covered in a cold sweat, and Gellert watched, equal parts fascinated and disgusted, as the man's breath puffed out in irregular frosty clouds. The whites of his eyes became pinkish, and his eyes froze in their sockets, staring up at Grindelwald in agony.

The scrawny man's skin took on a bluish hue, and his lips turned dark purple. His fingers froze, and then the rest of his body followed. Blood trickled from his nose and ears and then froze immediately against his skin. He let out one last anguished gurgle, and then went still. Gellert poked the dead man with his toe – Boris Kuznetsov was frozen solid.

Gellert huffed in displeasure and looked up at the other man in the room, also Russian. "Who is responsible for this, Orlov?" he asked quietly in the man's native tongue.

The Russian spy looked like he was about to throw up. "He said that the girl – that she'd put a spell on him of some sort. He couldn't tell me what it was, just that it started with _'sangui.'_ He…he didn't feel anything, at first, so he didn't think anything of it. It was an hour later when he said he was cold for the first time."

"A slow blood-freezing spell, it sounds like," he said, turning the frozen man over with his foot. "Fascinating."

Orlov looked ill. "Can I – can I go now?"

Gellert sighed impatiently and waved him towards the door. "Yes. But send Hobbard in, would you?" Orlov nodded shakily, and hurriedly slipped out the door.

He looked down at the body. "Interesting."

He sat down at his desk, and penned a letter to one of his Hogwarts spies. _What do you need from me in order to successfully capture the girl?_ He wrote. _I'll take Mallery too, if possible, but I'd like to start with Granger. I'll help you however I can, if you can manage to get her off of Hogwarts' grounds._

He did not sign it. He did not need to.

Hobbard, one of his top captains, entered the room swiftly and silently. That's what Gellert liked most about Hobbard Weber – he was efficient, and quiet about it.

"Sir?" he said lowly, bowing his head in recognition.

"Take Kuznetsov's body, and give it to Healer Braun. Tell her I want to know _exactly_ how he died, and if she can figure out the spell that caused it." He paused, fixing his letter to Lilith's leg and sending her out the window. "And send word to General Larsson – tell him to prepare to move into England. We'll start small, of course."

"Of course, Herr Grindelwald." Hobbard smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence. "Anything else?"

"For now, no," Gellert said, fingering the Elder Wand in his pocket. "But report back to me as soon as you have any information. Go."

When Hobbard left, he sat down heavily upon his desk chair. He stared at the array of photographs that Kuznetsov and Orlov had taken. He studied the three young people in the frames, watching their movements and mannerisms closely. Riddle, of course, he'd seen before. The breathtakingly handsome face and perfect form of the boy never failed to enrapture him, however. The Mallery boy was in possession of an indifferent, glacial countenance and intense, sharp eyes that were so pale in color they were nearly opalescent. The girl was pretty enough, but carried herself as if she were years older than a mere eighteen. Her hair was wild and shiny, her body as thin as a rapier and just as poised and deadly, and her eyes – her eyes were dark and dangerous and full of a certain wickedness that struck Gellert hard in the gut.

If he could not own them, tame them – he would have to destroy them.

"Oh Albus," he breathed, looking out the window, thinking of the handsome countenances of the three powerful students and how much power was sitting right at his old flame's feet. "I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, old friend."

Raising his wand, he destroyed the photographs, blowing the remaining cinders out the window and into the wind.

oooo

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 **I'm sorry this chapter was so long, but I couldn't find anyplace that would gracefully break apart into two chapters. So here you have it, my twenty-thousand word monster.**

 **Please, please, please review – it will make this whole losing my computer thing a little more tolerable, and lift my spirits immeasurably. Y'all have no idea how happy it makes me when I see that people are enjoying my story and take the time to comment on it. Remember, all comments are welcome. I appreciate any feedback, even the negative stuff. Don't be afraid to review honestly, even if you think it will hurt my feelings.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _She inhaled shakily, feeling her wrath grow with each passing second. Her desire for him did absolutely nothing to diminish her hatred of him. She let her hands slide from his shoulders and clench into fists at her sides. She gave him a shark-like grin, sure that it made her look like some sort of half-mad demon. She didn't care._

 **Anyways, I love you guys dearly, and I will try to keep churning out the chapters even without all of my pre-written stuff. Please keep your fingers crossed on my computer situation!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	16. Chapter 16

**A special shout out to AvalonTheLadyKiller, who always leaves lovely and eloquent reviews that never fail to make me smile.**

 **Also, a special thank you to Liz Lobos, who, even though she didn't have time to read all of chapter 15 right away, still left a review with her condolences and encouraging words of support for my computer situation. Seriously, I don't think I've ever had someone just comment on the author's note before. She is very, very kind. :)**

 **Thank you all for your reviews. At the beginning of each chapter I will leave a special note to a few reviewers by whom I was particularly touched. I love that y'all have gotten so invested in the story, and I hope that it stays that way. As usual, I appreciate any and all words that you all leave in the review box.** _ **All**_ **of them are special, and I make sure to read every single one.**

 **All of that being said, prepare for a healthy dose of drama. Hermione is about to be a badass, and this chapter leaves Tom open to become an even** _ **bigger**_ **badass in the future. She verbally rips him to shreds in this chapter. It's rather enjoyable, if I may say so myself. In addition to that, there will be a bit of tension between Hermione and Draco, as well, and a couple more hints as to how close they are, and their interesting past together.**

 **Also, pay attention to the quote by Pierre Corneille, below; I think it is especially applicable to Hermione at this point in the story. Besides, I think it's a very wise statement.**

 **Have fun!**

* * *

oooo

A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes. – Charles Spurgeon

To take revenge halfheartedly is to court disaster; either condemn or crown your hatred. –Pierre Corneille

* * *

oooo

Hermione released a shaky breath as she stalked through the halls, Draco by her side. She could still hear Riddle's whistling behind her, though soon it faded away as he split to go down to the dungeons and she and Draco climbed up to the first floor, intent on going to the hospital wing.

Her leg tingled where he'd grabbed her by the knee. The skin in front of her ear _ached_ where he'd brushed his lips earlier _._ Her neck and temple and scalp stung from where he'd slid his fingers back into her hair and pressed his thumbs below her ears. The back of her hand itched where he'd cupped it with his palm.

Everywhere he'd touched her, she could still feel. It was almost as if he still had his hands on her.

She was, Hermione admitted, quite out of her depth.

She'd never expected Tom Riddle to be so avidly interested in sex. She'd expected that perhaps he'd ventured into the realm of all things sexual simply to expand his general knowledge of the universe – he was not inclined to ignore information that might help further his plans via manipulation – but she hadn't expected that he'd be so interested in _her_ in that way. Draco had mentioned that she was a pretty girl, and powerful, and therefore Riddle would surely notice and take an interest in her; this was far beyond where she'd expected that interest to go.

She thought of Draco's words to her on Friday. _He knows how to seduce those around him._ She'd brushed him off. _Even so, I'm not in the business of being seduced._

Hermione laughed at her own stupidity.

She ran her fingers through her hair. Her heart beat like a drum, pounding against her ribcage. Fawkes was wide-awake and burning. Any time Riddle came into contact with her – especially contact of a physical nature – Fawkes stirred and flared to life within her, oddly interested in Riddle's presence. It wasn't a good interested or a bad interested – just a neutral sort of curiosity.

Fawkes was…odd. Not at all like she'd expected him to be. Almost like there was something off about him. He was not the same Fawkes that sat on a perch in Dumbledore's office.

But that was something to think about at another time, perhaps. Right now, all she could focus on was the memory of Tom Riddle's deliciously large hand on her knee, and the hunger and covetousness in his eyes as she'd used an Unforgiveable without hesitation and cursed that man to die without a second thought. She'd never thought of her ruthlessness and practicality as particularly attractive traits; but of course they would be, to _him._ To others, her behavior was off-putting. To Tom Riddle, it was fascinating. She had made him want her without even trying, and now she wished she had practiced more restraint.

She thought of the way she'd threatened him, of the way he'd teased her; the way she'd brought her lips up to his ear and accidentally flicked the lobe with her tongue. She thought of how his body had stiffened in response and his breath had hitched just for a moment. She thought of how he'd smelled: like cracked pepper and sandalwood and something fresh like rain – and something darker, richer, reminiscent of dark chocolate and cigar smoke and the darkest, spiciest zinfandel.

She swallowed nervously. She looked to her right, where Draco miraculously kept up with her purposeful stride. He gave her a worried look. She returned it. He did not speak; he didn't need to. She knew what he was thinking – coincidentally, it was exactly was she was thinking.

 _You, Hermione Jean Granger, are in quite a dilemma._

* * *

oooo

"I _hate_ him," Draco said, gulping down his third potion angrily and then uncorking the fourth, flinging the cork across the room. "I _hate_ the way he looks at you, talks to you, _touches_ you."

"Yes, but admit it," Hermione said wearily, sighing and leaning back against the headboard of the queen sized bed of his new chambers. Madam Soranus had showed them in as soon as they'd returned from Diagon Alley, giving them a disapproving glance as they both remained inside, together; still, she seemed to accept what power she did and did not have over them, and, in the end, left them unattended. "If you didn't hate him so much, you would like him."

Draco snarled, hating that she was right. "Fine. He's immensely likeable. But all I can help but think of is how many people he is responsible for killing."

"Four."

Draco gulped down the fourth potion and winced, washing it down with some water. "Four what?"

"He's killed four people," Hermione said, looking at him with steady brown eyes. He could tell that the events of that morning and afternoon had upset her, though. She fidgeted with the edge of his sheets, and was twirling her left ankle around like she did when her brain was on overdrive. Her bottom lip was swollen from where she'd nibbled it to death. Tom Riddle had gotten under her skin, and she was reeling.

"In this timeline, Hermione, that we _know_ of," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Precisely," she said, taking a sip out of her own water glass. "Keep in mind that this Tom Riddle is different from the Lord Voldemort that we grew up with, Draco."

"You're only saying that to make yourself feel better about being attracted to him," he sneered, hobbling over to the corner and collapsing into an armchair.

He saw the brief flash of hurt in her eyes, and she turned away from him. "Yes. I know."

Draco sighed, running his hands over his face. "I'm sorry." He swallowed, looking at the floor. "You know how I feel about you." His skin burned with the hard truth of his admittance.

Hermione looked up at him, her eyes angry. "And you know how I feel about you! You know that I've _always_ struggled with my attraction for you, and how if ever I was to move on with anyone, it would be you, Draco –" She stopped abruptly, closing her eyes and sighing heavily. "We've gone over this before, I thought."

"Once, when we were both drunk," he said sourly, staring at the carpet. He felt an overwhelming bitterness simmer in his heart. "I am well aware that we will never be together in that way, but I hate seeing him basically leading you into his bed like a lost fucking sheep. And I'm not just speaking from the viewpoint of a man who's in love with you." The words felt like sandpaper against his windpipe. "I'm speaking as a friend."

He saw her drop her head into her hands, heard her soft groan of emotion. She spoke, her words muffled by her palms. "I don't know what to do, Draco."

"And I can't _tell_ you what to do, Hermione," he responded, meeting her eyes desperately as she looked up at him. "I'm trying to advise you as best I can, but I find myself unable to see your situation through unbiased eyes." He gulped down the fifth potion, wincing at the strong burn of spearmint on his tongue. "All I can say is to try to navigate these waters as best you can. If you want to play his game, you have to put on your big girl boots and deal with it."

"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered, looking a bit frantic. "I thought I had a handle on it when it was just a power play, but I don't know anything about _sex,_ Malfoy. I've only ever been with Ron, and – and it wasn't like that, with us. It wasn't about that. It was playful, and loving, and everything about him was gentle." She was crying now, and Draco's heart ached for her. "I'm not – I can't outfox _him_ when it comes to…to this."

He sighed tiredly, looking down at his shoes. "He's using your attraction to him against you, Hermione – you'll have to learn to do the same. Though Voldemort knows how to use what he has to get what he wants, he's never shown any inkling of ever wanting a woman, at least as more than a temporary means to an end. But he's taken with you. _You_ can use _that_ against _him._ He's made himself vulnerable by acting on his desire for you. Take that knife, and twist it in."

She barked out a laugh. "I know nothing about using sex as leverage. And besides being able to flirt some – and with _him,_ that consists basically of threats and bravado and whispered words of hatred – I know even less about seduction."

"You do it subconsciously," he murmured, looking up at her from his position in the corner. He tapped his crutch against the floor. "Do you ever wonder why eyes seek you out whenever you walk in a room, Hermione? Why they watch you leave? Have you not even noticed?"

She frowned. "Not…really. Sort of. I've just never thought anything of it, you know? I've never been told that I was particularly interesting, or good-looking – all I've ever known is that I'm smart, good at spells, and magically gifted. And that's all I thought other people saw when they looked at me."

"Did Weasley really never tell you how beautiful you are?" he asked quietly.

She blushed. "Of course he did. But he was my husband, Draco. All husbands say things like that to their wives, because they love them. It was expected."

"He wasn't speaking subjectively, when he said it," Draco said, raising an eyebrow. "You aren't Fleur Delacour, but you are stunning in your own way. And you walk with confidence. And confidence, when seeking to seduce someone, is the most important tool you can have in your bag."

Hermione swallowed. "I can't hide how he makes me uncomfortable. I blush like a bloody schoolgirl. This is the one area in which I can't lie effectively, because my skin gives me away. He's already learned how to read it."

"Make it part of your appeal," he said thoughtfully, cocking his head and assessing her with as cool a logic as he could, given the circumstances. "He knows you're attracted to him, and that he makes you uncomfortable – that panders to his ego. He also likes the intrigue of wondering just how experienced you are. You walk about with such confidence, but when it comes to matters of sex you fumble. Every man has secret desires about finding a relatively innocent girl and corrupting her. Generally, we're the dominant partners in bed. Not always," he said with a shrug. "Sometimes it's fun to mix it up. But Riddle is someone who likes to be in control. Give him that in bed and nowhere else. It'll be addictive."

"I don't want to sleep with him," she said, looking terrified. "Well, physically I do, but psychologically there's nothing I would like to do _less._ Different timeline or not, he's still the devil. I'm already fighting with my own darkness – "

"If you stopped using that _Probilium_ curse – "

"I know, Draco, I know!" she said, frustrated. "I just – sometimes I want people to _hurt,_ I don't want to just kill them quick and easy, because God _damn_ it, Draco, they don't fucking _deserve_ it – " She stopped, her face contorted into a snarl of hatred and misery.

"You can't keep living like this, Hermione," he said softly, getting up and climbing on the bed with her. He sat cross-legged, facing her, and he laid a hand on her knee. "You're brimming with hate and anger and revenge that you will never be able to see fulfilled." He paused, looking deep into her teary eyes. "You won't kill him. Look into my eyes and deny it."

Her face crumpled, and she leaned into him. He wrapped his arms around her as she wept into the collar of his shirt. "I want him to pay, Draco," she said thickly, her fingers digging into the flesh of his back. "I want him to hurt. But something stops me. I don't know if it's the knowledge that this is an alternate timeline and therefore he's just not the same person, physically; or if it's my fascination with him, or my attraction to him…I just don't know. But each time I interact with him I find myself more and more reluctant to kill him. And I feel like –" Her voice cracked, and he held her tighter as her body tensed and started to shake. "I feel like I'm _betraying_ Ron, and Harry, and everybody – I feel like I'm betraying _you –"_

"Hush," he said, pressing his mouth against her wild hair. "You aren't betraying me. I've never wanted anything for you other than your safety and your happiness and for you to follow your own heart. Don't for a minute think that. Don't."

She nodded. "But Ron – "

"– Is a memory." He paused. "Ron is gone, Hermione," he said, feeling positively dreadful as she pulled slightly away from him to look him in the face. Her chin quivered, her face wet with tears. "Weasley will always be in your heart, but he's been dead for a while, Granger. He hasn't even been born yet, in this timeline. You'll see him again in the afterlife – but don't live your life by what might please him and what won't. He's not you. _You_ are you, and only you can make the decisions that will shape your future."

"He would hate that I've gotten involved with Riddle," she whispered hoarsely, looking despondent.

"He would love you regardless," he whispered back, cradling her cheeks with his hands. "You know he would. He would sneer, and yell, and cross his arms, and tromp around with those ridiculously large feet of his –" Hermione giggled. " – and he would still love you, Granger. Merlin, would he love you. He adored you, you know."

"Yeah?" Hermione said, smiling through her tears.

"He did. You were always in conversation. 'Hermione this, Hermione that' – it was bloody annoying, sometimes." Draco sighed, shifting and brushing her unruly hair out of her face. "He knew how I felt about you, too."

Hermione sniffed. "He did?"

"Yeah. Approached me about it – I thought for sure he was going to kill me," Draco said with an eye roll. "But he just accepted it, and made me promise to look after you, if anything ever happened to him."

"When was that?" she asked, turning her face into his hands, her nose and lips resting against the inside of his wrist.

"August," he answered softly. "A month before you were taken."

She trembled, and he drew her into his arms a second time, and she crawled into his lap, wrapping her arms around his torso and laying her head between his collarbones.

And they just sat there for a while, together, before he felt her body relax into sleep and realized that his own eyelids were drooping; he maneuvered them so that they were both under the covers, and she snuggled into his body as she had a thousand times before. He wrapped her up in his arms, and, pushing his general apprehension into the back of his mind, allowed himself to fall into sleep.

* * *

oooo

Hermione settled down into her seat at breakfast, wedging herself between Zuri and Kat. Zuri looked at her with sharp black eyes.

"Where were you last night, Hermione?" she asked, her tone deceptively light; but Hermione could hear the suspicion and curiosity in her voice.

"Er, I stayed with Draco," Hermione responded sheepishly. "I accidentally fell asleep in his quarters, and he didn't want to bother me." At Zuri's scandalized look, she rolled her eyes. "Draco and I aren't like that. We've been close for a really long time, and have slept in the same room most nights for the past several years. Along with other people, as well. There isn't anything romantic about it, trust me."

 _You know how I feel about you._

The words echoed in Hermione's brain, and she inhaled sharply. It was not the first time she'd heard them…and they were, to a certain extent, very much reciprocated. It was just…complicated. But these girls didn't need to know that.

Kat snorted to her right. "Why ever not? Have you seen him lately? It doesn't get much better than that."

Hermione grimaced. "I – "

"Hey Granger!"

Hermione turned sharply, looking to where an attractive brunette in Hufflepuff robes came striding down the isle towards her. He walked with the sort of swagger that just screamed "athlete." Hermione knew his name: Colt Diggory. It was hard to forget a name like that, when she'd seen his son weep openly over his grandson's dead body so many years ago. Those kinds of memories stayed with you forever.

"Er, hello, Diggory – what can I do for you?" she asked, looking up at him with a tight smile. His eyes were a lovely hazel shade, his skin browned from the sun. He was every bit as handsome as Cedric had been; but a lot less humble.

"You can go to Slughorn's party with me on Thursday," he said, beaming down at her.

She looked up at him in shock. "Well, I – I'm flattered, Diggory, but unfortunately I've already agreed to go with Draco," she lied, desperate to not have to attend a function with a cocky quidditch chaser who reminded her so much of a dead body from almost a decade ago. Thank Merlin she had her best friend here to fall back on.

"With Mallery?" Colt said with a frown. "I thought the two of you were just friends?"

"Yes, of course, but we just thought it would be nice to go with a familiar face to the first function of the year, you know?" she said, her hands sweating. She saw Draco enter the Great Hall, and shot him a desperate look. "We're very close, you see, and wanted to be able to stick by each others' sides while we're still getting acclimated to our new…environment."

Draco came and sat down across from her, next to Sabrina, and she smiled at him tightly. He looked up at Diggory. "Sorry, mate, but she's taken already for this function – but perhaps next time, yeah?"

Diggory's lips twitched downwards. "Of course." He smiled at Hermione, and brought her hand up to kiss her knuckles. "Perhaps the Halloween Ball?" he asked with a wink.

She cleared her throat. "Perhaps. I'll – I'll think about it, yeah?"

"Be sure that you do," he said confidently, smiling at her as he turned away. "Mallery's a lucky sod. I hope you'll consider going with me another time."

"Of course," she said, smiling nervously. "I'll see you around, Colt."

"I look forward to it, Hermione." He smiled, and strode back to his own table, seemingly no worse the wear when it came to confidence.

"Well," Draco said, piling some scrambled eggs onto his plate with gusto. He looked up at Hermione with a smirk, casually dodging a copy of the daily prophet as the mail arrived, owls swooping in through the open windows. "You're welcome."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and flicked the edge of a newspaper off of her plate. "Sorry, Draco. I hope you didn't intend on taking someone else?"

He cleared his throat and looked to his right. "I was planning on asking Snowborn, but perhaps she'll go with me for Halloween."

Sabrina blushed. Hermione groaned and put her hands over her face. "God, Sabrina, I'm sorry. I'm so thoughtless sometimes."

"That's all right, Hermione," she said, smiling softly. That's why Hermione liked her so much. She was very forgiving, and had a gentle nature. "Colt is kind of a jerk. I mean, I don't know if _I_ would have said no – he's very handsome, and has a lot of connections through his family – but he's a bit arrogant and thinks of women as pretty things to wear on his arm."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I've noticed that about a lot of men around here," she said darkly. "It's getting a bit tired. I'm glad that there's talk about a woman running for Minister of Magic. Hopefully some of those outdated opinions about women will be flushed down the loo."

Kat shrugged, opening up the paper she'd received. "That would be nice, wouldn't it?" she said, sighing. "It's like in the last thirty years we've slid backwards on social issues. It's odd."

"A change in the Wizengamot, I expect," Zuri said, snorting in disdain. "You know that Malfoy and Black have been pushing them in all the wrong directions."

Hermione saw Draco's eyes sharpen in interest. "Abraxas Malfoy?" he asked curiously.

"His father, Agricola," Zuri replied. "Abraxas won't take his seat on the Wizengamot until he turns thirty." She squinted at him. "I would say you were a Malfoy yourself, Draco, but you're not anywhere near arrogant enough to be related to those pompous gits."

Draco chuckled, and Hermione suppressed a fit of hysterical laughter. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, raising his glass of pumpkin juice towards the dark-skinned girl across the table. "I appreciate the positive assessment of my character."

Hermione's instincts jolted as a shadow fell over her shoulder. Draco looked up.

"Well," a deep voice came from behind her, "I was hoping to ask you to the party on Thursday, but it seems you already have a suitor of sorts."

Hermione turned. Magnus Macdonald stood behind her, looking a bit dejected. The handsome brunette was holding a Daily Prophet in his hands, looking down at what seemed to be the third page.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione asked, blushing again, feeling an irrational anger that only this morning she'd been asked _twice_ to Slughorn's party – what the hell? She'd had enough male attention over the last few days to last a lifetime.

 _When I seduce you, Miss Granger, you_ _ **will**_ _remember it afterwards._

She shivered.

The handsome quidditch captain laid the paper out before her and winked at her, his blue eyes sparkling. "Perhaps you'll change your mind. If so, you know where to find me, Granger."

When he turned and walked back towards his end of the table, she looked down to the third page of the Daily Prophet that was spread open on the table. She sucked in a breath when her eyes were drawn to a fairly large black and white moving picture of herself and Tom Riddle.

At first she was silent, simply because her eyes were drawn to his face – the black and white photograph put the sharp, handsome angles of his face in stark relief. He was, as Hermione had traitorously admitted to herself before, physically perfect. She noticed the way he seemed to tower over her in the picture, the way the breadth of his shoulders so eclipsed her own.

It was a picture of the two of them after they'd stepped out of Florean Fortescue's. She watched in fascination (and horror) as she took a lick of her brimbleberry ice cream, and Tom watched her with an unreadable expression before tucking her free hand into the crook of his arm and turning to lick his own ice cream. She flushed irrationally hot as his tongue darted out to taste the chocolaty flavor.

There were two smaller pictures below – one of she and Riddle out front of Ollivander's, him tucking a loose piece of hair back behind one of her bobby pins, and one of all three of them in the doorway of the Quivering Quill. Draco was leaning heavily upon his crutch as Tom opened the door, and all three of them were smiling amusedly. Hermione very clearly saw her lips form the words "Harping Howler."

Her eyes dropped down to the article printed below, and her hands shook.

 ** _October 2, 1944_**

 _ **NEW SCHOOL ROMANCE?**_

 _ **Miss Hermione Granger and Mister Draco Mallery, Hogwarts' two newest additions, make their first appearance in public – and they aren't alone**_

 _Yesterday, Sunday the 1_ _st_ _, Hermione Granger and Draco Mallery were seen out and about in Diagon Alley, accompanied by none other than Hogwarts' most celebrated Head Boy, Tom Riddle._

 _Riddle is, of course, considered to be the his generation's most eligible bachelor, but he has never been seen to express any serious interest in a girl – until now._

 _Hermione Granger, despite rumors of being unusually close to her companion Draco Mallery, has managed to worm her way into Riddle's good graces surprisingly quickly, despite his previous proclivity to remain devoted to his studies and Head Boy duties. From what we can see, he seems effectively captivated by the witch; whether he will remain that way is yet to be seen._

" _He's been seen walking with her in the halls, carrying her bag, sitting next to her in class – and she calls him familiarly by his first name, which, given the general formality of Riddle's person, is very unusual indeed," says a teacher. "She even sat at the Slytherin table Saturday morning at breakfast, which means she's willing to throw away the typical constraints of house rivalries, given that she's a Gryffindor. All in all, they make a very handsome couple. I'm eager to see where this goes."_

 _Draco Mallery, despite rumors of being very protective of the girl, seemed to get along swimmingly with Riddle – or as swimmingly as two attractive alpha males can be. All my fellow ladies, wouldn't you agree? Now England has another eligible bachelor, and my, isn't he handsome._

 _Mallery was seen buying a wand – which we hear is blackthorn and dragon heartstring, 14 inches long – and a beautiful eagle owl for a familiar. Of course, we're all left wondering why he's been hobbling around on a crutch – well, wonder no more. Our contacts at the school have the dish._

" _He was hit by a dark curse before they arrived here," one student claims. "Both of them came in covered in blood, and Mallery was totally unconscious for over a week. He's been in a wheelchair most of the time, but he seems to be improving as the days go by."_

 _This lends itself to the story of their background: the two students came spinning through a rip in space all the way from China, where they'd been involved in an ongoing war. The Ministry is still looking into their records, and we can't wait to see what they find out. Of course, Granger and Mallery are not alone – rumor has it that two of their old foes from the war came through that same hole in space, and now Hogwarts is working with the Ministry on figuring out what additional security measures need to be put into place._

 _As for Granger and Riddle…well, we'll let the unmistakable chemistry between those two speak for itself. As always, we at the Daily Prophet will keep our eyes peeled and ears open for any more juicy gossip surrounding the budding romance of this attractive couple. Don't worry: have we ever let you down before?_

 ** _Sophia Bones_**

Hermione slammed the paper back onto the table, furious. She looked up at Draco, who was just finishing reading his own copy. He met her eyes, and his lips trembled for a moment before he burst out laughing.

"Shut up," she snarled hotly, feeling her cheeks burn hot as everyone at the Gryffindor table, and indeed most of the other people in the Great Hall, stared at her. She turned around to look at the Slytherin table; Riddle and all of his cronies were absent. Thank Merlin. She didn't think she could handle seeing his stupid face right now.

Draco continued to laugh, his eyes closed and shoulders shaking with mirth, and she reached across the table and popped him on the head with her copy of the paper. "This isn't funny, Draco!" she hissed.

"Haha, 'budding romance of this attractive couple'…hahaha." Draco wiped at his eyes, which had started to tear, and took a shuddering breath, coughing a bit. "Whew. Oh, wow. I haven't been that entertained in…well, in quite a while."

Hermione glared at him. "I hate you."

"Love you too, Granger," he drawled, flicking her on the nose affectionately. She flinched away from him, not at all amused.

Across the table, Sabrina was devouring the article. "Blimey, Hermione," she said, her eyes widening. "It really does look like he's totally entranced by you." She looked up. "I thought you said you weren't interested?"

"Yes Hermione," Iris said from two seats down, looking at her scathingly. "I thought you said you _weren't interested."_

"I'm not!" Hermione hissed defensively, her blood boiling. "He – he's pushy, and – and has no concept of _personal space,_ and I'm totally not interested at all," she lied. She tangled her fingers in her hair. "And sure, yeah, we get along well, but – but – oh my God, this is a bloody disaster. Draco, what do I do?" she asked frantically, waving the paper around hysterically. She felt totally helpless.

He shrugged. "I don't know, Hermione. Just…don't freak out, all right? I'm sure people will just see it as a big misunderstanding come tomorrow. Besides, I hardly think Riddle will be pleased to be labeled as 'effectively captivated.' I imagine that 'our generation's most eligible bachelor' will want to remain that way. He doesn't seem like the type that wants to be tied down with someone. Conveniently enough, you aren't that type either."

Hermione's anger simmered low in her stomach. "I have half a mind to march right on down to the Daily Prophet and give this Sophia Bones a piece of my mind. See how she likes having a nasty dose of an Unforgivable that starts with the letter _C."_

Sabrina gasped. "Hermione!"

"I'm kidding!" she said, grumbling. "Mostly."

"Have you ever actually…well, you know, cast an – an Unforgivable?" Sabrina said. Iris leaned over to listen.

Hermione snorted. "Is anybody going to appear over my shoulder and haul me off to Azkaban if I say yes?"

Kat stared at her. "You've tortured people?"

Hermione, feeling rather humorless, stood from her seat, downing the rest of her orange juice. She swung her legs over the bench and grabbed her bag, intent on escaping down to the Black Lake for some alone time before Herbology. She looked around the group of girls that were crowded around her section of the table.

"You bet your arse I have," she said coldly, thinking of all the times she'd used the _Cruciatus_ curse on her enemies. "And I don't feel an ounce of regret over it, either."

Crumpling her copy of The Daily Prophet in her hand, she stalked down to the doors of the Great Hall, her hair cracking with her magic, and incinerated the newspaper with the heat of her fingers.

She was unaware of how her hand caught on fire before it winked out, leaving her skin unharmed.

* * *

oooo

"You can use this, you know."

Hermione crossed her arms and turned away from her best friend, looking out across the Black Lake. The Giant Squid set a tentacle up on the beach next to her leg, and she reached down to scratch him. "I'm sorry, Godric, but I forgot your toast."

She finally looked up at Draco. "I forgot to meet Conan out here this morning. I feel terrible."

"He'll live," Draco said curtly. "You can apologize to him later. Now that you've scared the wits out of your roommates, he might be your only friend."

Hermione winced. "They were that freaked out?"

"No," he said, sitting down next to her, tapping his new cane on the ground – Madam Soranus had given it to him this morning. It was magically fortified, strong enough to bear his entire weight, if needed. "I was exaggerating. Zuri managed to talk the rest of them down, pointing out the usual – you know, that you aren't from here, and that you'd been in a war, and that sometimes you had to do questionable things, blah blah blah…" He shrugged. "Honestly, I didn't really even have to say anything in your defense. She covered all the bases."

"I like her," Hermione said softly.

"She reminds me of you, not too long ago," Malfoy said, casting a quick _Muffliato_ around them. "Righteous and smart and snobby. It's refreshing."

"Do you miss me being like that?" she asked quietly, putting a hand on his knee.

He reached down to lay his fingers over her knuckles. "Sometimes."

Hermione sighed, feeling lost. "I'm not sure where that girl went."

"Sometimes she still makes an appearance," Draco said with a wistful smile. "The know-it-all girl with her nose stuck in a book, excited about exams, concerned with all things good and just and proper; and the girl that wasn't afraid to bend the rules, when it suited her. I still see her, every now and again." He paused, looking at the smooth surface of the lake. "The glimpse of a relic of a time long past, perhaps."

"Do you ever feel like…like you're living in a dream? Like you'll wake up any moment, snug in your four-poster bed, Crabbe and Goyle snoring on either side?"

"I used to," he replied, squeezing her fingers. "I think it was that morning on the back porch swing at Grimmauld Place, a few days after you were rescued – I think that's when I realized that it wasn't a dream. Just cold, hard reality. And I kept watching people die – and kept killing people – and that notion of it all being a dream…it vaporized."

She looked down at the Giant Squid's ticklish red tentacle. He didn't seem to mind that she had no toast. He was just content to let her scratch him.

How nice it must be, to live such a simple life.

"I wish it were a dream," she whispered. "If I could go back, and tell everybody to just _get out –_ to run, get out of Britain forever…" She sighed.

"Me too."

Hermione flipped her hand over and squeezed his. "What were you saying about being able to use something?"

"The article," Draco said. His lips quirked up, and she gave him a warning glare. "You've already made your displeasure known. Keep doing that."

"What? Why?" she asked, puzzled.

"Riddle likes that you're a challenge," he said, looking down and grabbing a handful of sand, letting it run between his fingers. "He hates women that fawn all over him. Thinks they're pathetic. One of the reasons why you intrigue him so much is that you aren't like other girls, in more ways than one. It will take more than just his pretty smile and some flattery to have you falling all over him. You're something for him to conquer, so to speak."

"Like hell I am!" she hissed angrily.

Draco pointed his cane at her. "That's precisely what I mean, right there. Your resistance to him is both frustrating and fascinating to him."

"He'll get tired of it eventually," she said, thinking back to her conversation with Avery Saturday morning. "My little rebellious streak will get old."

"Then draw it out for as long as you can," Malfoy said. "Give him a little bit here and there, and then distance yourself. Make it seem like you're struggling to say no."

"I _am_ struggling to say no," she said impatiently.

"Good, then you won't have to act much," he replied, his tone cool. She knew it bothered him, talking about this. "Push and pull, Hermione. Keep him occupied with you."

"That worries me, a bit," she said, looking up at the cloudy sky. It looked like it was going to rain. "Lord Voldemort was notorious for obsessing over things. Immortality, Harry Potter, the Elder Wand…" She trailed off, squinting up at the clouds. "What if I become that obsession?"

"Then you best make sure it's the kind of obsession that keeps you alive." She looked at him. His face was dead serious, his eyes solemn ash. "I hate it more than anyone, Hermione," he said quietly. "But you'll have to use your body to bring him to his knees. It's part of your power as a woman. You've got to tap into every part of yourself that can be used against him, because when it comes to sheer power, magical and physical, he has the upper hand."

She watched as an osprey flew low over the lake before snatching a fish in its talons and carrying his prize away into the trees. "I've never been so great at using my womanly wiles. I'm better at it than I used to be, with Ginny's and Pansy's influences," she said, "but it's not exactly natural to me." She met his eyes. "Can you teach me?"

His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed. "Teach you how to…"

"Yes." She hurriedly looked away.

"I thought we agreed that we could never be – "

" – be together in that way, yes," she said, feeling her heart constrict. "This would be purely…clinical."

Draco looked horrified. "You're asking the impossible, Hermione," he said, his voice cracking. "You're asking me to teach you everything I know about sex and seduction – via _experience_ – and to remain _clinical_ about it?" Hips lips went thin with anger. "Damn it, Granger, do you know how hard that will be?"

"Yes," she said, swallowing. "I do." She stared at his shoes. "If any two people can detach from their emotions to do something like this, it's the two of us, Draco."

He stood. "I won't have intercourse with you." His face was cool and calm, but his eyes were hot with rage. "But I'll try to teach you as best I can using all other means. Meet me in my quarters tonight at nine." He tapped his cane against her hip.

"Thank you, Draco." She made to stand.

He held up his hand and looked away. "I don't want to see you right now," he said lowly. "And I sure as hell don't want to talk to you. Just…go to class, Hermione. I'm taking the day off."

He left her there, hobbling off with his cane and never looking back. She felt a tear slip from her eye, and suddenly, she felt like the most selfish person in the world.

* * *

oooo

"I thought Mallery was coming to classes today?"

Hermione looked up as Bertha Higgs sidled in next to her in Herbology. She smiled in greeting as she potted another fanged geranium – she had done it a thousand times in her sixth year, but apparently the curriculum at Hogwarts in 1944 was quite a bit behind what she'd dealt with in the '90s – and again when Sabrina and Felicity Carmichael also came to stand around the table she was sharing with Zuri.

"He planned on it," she said quietly. "Wasn't feeling up to it."

"He looked great at breakfast," Zuri said with a frown. "Much better than before."

She shrugged.

"Did you have a row?" Sabrina asked. The prefect's keen perceptiveness was starting to make Hermione uncomfortable. She seemed to be able to read the tension in any situation, and her observations were often spot-on.

She cleared her throat. "It's fine. Draco and I understand each other. Every fight we have is usually resolved quickly."

"It seems that you two have no secrets," Zuri commented.

"None," she confirmed confidently.

 _Well…just one._

Felicity flipped her wheat-blonde hair over her shoulder. "Unusual, for a man and a woman to be so close without any sort of romance involved," she said, her voice strong and clear and indicative of someone who had been raised to think she was superior. Her future granddaughter would turn out to be a gem. Hermione had depended heavily upon Penelope Clearwater during the war. She had been smart and brave and resourceful, and had enjoyed research as much as Hermione did.

Hermione smiled nostalgically. "My two best friends growing up were both boys."

"Was one of them Draco?" Sabrina asked.

"Oh Merlin no," Hermione said with a snort. "Draco and I were mortal enemies in school. It wasn't until the war started that we were forced to work together – then he just sort of slipped into the best friend role, by accident, really…nobody saw it coming. Least of all the two of us. But…it works." It felt nice – for the first time since she got here, not a single part of one of her statements was a lie.

"How did you end up with two boys as your best friends when you were so young?" Bertha asked, looking at her with curious blue eyes.

Hermione grinned. "We bonded in one of the girls' loos," she said fondly, taking note of the four pairs of eyebrows that shot up. That memory was little more than a dream, now – but still vivid. "A troll got into the school. The three of us were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and managed to somehow incapacitate it just in time for all the professors to get there." She giggled. "Since then…well, we made a pretty good team. We kept each other alive…for a long time."

"A troll, huh?" Felicity said, looking skeptical. "When you were eleven?"

"I was eleven, but they were both ten, at the time," she lied, trying to confirm the idea that their first year of school had been true to Chinese tradition. "A fully grown mountain troll," she said, shaking her head in long-felt disbelief. "Dumb luck, really," she said, repeating the words of Professor McGonagall. "We were a mess."

"You just can't make this stuff up," Zuri said, looking at Hermione with something like awe and just a tinge of envy. "I mean really – I envy you your adventurous childhood."

She realized what she'd said just a moment after she'd said it. The flash of irritation that Hermione let slip across her face made Zuri flush in embarrassment.

"Forgive me, Hermione," she said quietly. She held her head high – she reminded Hermione of her old self so much just then. "That was thoughtless. I'm sorry."

Hermione was grateful that the girl didn't fall all over herself apologizing. Zuri was a prideful creature, and there was an air of superiority there – something that Hermione had not recognized in herself until she'd gotten a bit older – but she was fair and just, and though it was obviously hard for her to admit to a mistake, she did it with grace. Hermione imagined that the gracious part of it had been a development that had come with maturity, and fairly recent. Hermione still struggled with that, herself.

Hermione nodded. "Thank you." She sighed. "I suppose it seems glamorous, looking from the outside in." She smiled. "I think it's the potential for glory, and the automatic respect that comes with it." She finished potting her last geranium; frowning as she caught her finger on a fang and watching the blood come to the surface of her skin.

 _Blood,_ she mused to herself, sucking the throbbing finger into her mouth. _Funny how it all looks the same, smells the same, feels the same, tastes the same. Funny how everybody bleeds the same way: revoltingly, and quickly. Funny how it all looks the same as it pools on wood, soaks through dirt, runs between cobblestones. Funny how those who scream in the throes of a bloody death all look equally ugly. Funny how everyone in the world could bleed into the same pot, and you wouldn't be able to distinguish whose was whose._

Funny.

"I'm going to go wash up," she said, smiling at the group to try to dispel the tension. "Does anyone need any help before I do?"

"You work so quickly, Hermione," Bertha said. "It seems like you've done it all before. Not just the geraniums – everything."

She shrugged. "I think that Hogwarts is a little behind on their curriculum, compared to the rest of the world. No offense to Headmaster Dippet, but I think he sees all of us as children. Unfortunately, this does nothing to help prepare us for the real world."

She waved at them all and turned. "I'm going to go ahead and go on back to my dorm before lunch to freshen up. I'll see you all in the Great Hall," she said with a small smile.

"See you, Hermione," Sabrina said, going back to her own table to finish up her potting.

The other girls murmured niceties, and Hermione went up to the front of the greenhouse and smiled at the kind, sincere, down-to-earth Professor Beery.

"All done, Miss Granger?" he asked, his two bushy brown eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

"Yes, sir," she said, handing in the sheet of parchment that magically kept track of each plant she'd potted. There were check marks next to each of them in green ink, indicating that she'd not only finished, but also potted all of the geraniums perfectly and without incident.

He took the parchment and looked it over, and then sighed, looking up at her with a smile that spoke of no shortage of amusement. "Why am I not surprised?" He shook his head. "I hate the feeling of not being able to teach someone anything. It's terrible, you know, as a teacher."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Professor, I can assure you that there is _plenty_ more for me to learn, especially when it comes to something like Herbology. I never truly got to finish my education in China properly, after all, and, well, the environment we were in wasn't exactly conducive to a focus on Herbology. No offense, Professor, but unless it could be used offensively or defensively, we didn't pay much attention to plants," she finished sheepishly. She felt guilty.

"Then I wonder if you might not be interested in doing some more advanced lessons in your free time?" he said, placing her paper on the table at the front of the greenhouse; predictably, it was the first one there, as she was the first one finished. "You would receive extra credit for it, of course."

She brimmed with excitement. "Oh, of course! I'm already doing some after-hours sessions with Professor Dumbledore, but I'm sure I'd have plenty of time to help out here at the greenhouses, and I'd love the opportunity to further my education outside of the constraints of a class."

"Perhaps two nights a week, or something of the like? I don't wish to take away your free time," he said, still looking amused and rather pleased at her enthusiasm.

She beamed. "That sounds lovely. I'll confer with Professor Dumbledore, and we can figure out a schedule."

"Excellent," he said, smiling in return. "I look forward to it. You are free to go, Hermione. Enjoy your lunch."

"You too, Professor," she said, bowing her head in acknowledgement and giving him one last smile as she pushed through the door.

She was glad that, for once, she didn't have to fake her happiness.

 _I'm not sure where that girl went._

 _Sometimes she still makes an appearance. The glimpse of a relic of a time long past, perhaps._

She sighed as she headed back to Gryffindor Tower, climbing the stairs at a run and relishing the familiar increase in her heart rate. She was aware that she probably looked like a total loon to the few students she passed, but didn't much care.

She needed to feel the burn in her legs, the pounding of her heart, the strain of her lungs. She needed to remind herself that she was here, now, in this place. It was no use dwelling on the past, after all.

She hated that she told herself that everyday, and yet she was never able to follow her own advice.

How _fucking_ funny.

* * *

oooo

At lunch, she sat at the Ravenclaw table with Bertha, Felicity, and an auburn-haired girl named Pepper Peabody who had a mischievous glint in her hazel eyes that made Hermione think of Ginny. The girl was quite the firecracker, and was quick-witted and in possession of a delightfully sharp tongue.

Sabrina, Zuri and Ignatius had all decided to sit with the Ravenclaws as well, and it was causing quite the stir – she seemed to have started a trend. Though Iris had long floated between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, and sometimes ventured over to gossip with the Ravenclaws and Slytherins, she never sat down to actually _eat_ with them. It was quite the taboo thing, apparently, though it seemed that most people were more shocked than displeased. She was very effectively pushing at the boundaries of societal norms, and even though it might cause her some trouble later, she couldn't really find it within her to actually _care._

She chose a seat facing away from the Slytherin table, of course, and actively participated in the conversation at her table; but it was only a matter of time before she felt a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet tap her shoulder and then rest there. Somehow, having the insubstantial weight of the paper hanging over her shoulder was far more menacing than it should have been.

She turned, and met Riddle's eyes. The dark anger in them caused nervous butterflies to flutter low in her stomach. Predictably, Fawkes came awake, and she could feel his desire for her to touch Riddle's magic with her own.

She actively ignored him. _Infuriating bird_.

"I don't appreciate having my face splashed across the front page, nor do I enjoy having a fabricated story of my _romance_ with you circulated throughout the entire British wizarding community." His words were acid.

"I suppose that makes two of us," she said tightly, staring up at him with narrowed eyes.

She saw a brief expression of disbelief flicker across his face. "You deny the claim that you started this absurd rumor?"

Her eyes went wide and she laughed out loud. She just could not control herself. "Oh yes, Tom, I just couldn't _wait_ for the world to know of our 'budding romance,'" she said acidly, with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes. "Being seen on your arm has been my goal since day one. You're just positively _dreamy."_

He glared at her. The fact that he was displaying such negative emotion in front of the rest of her peers was uncommon. He must have been incredibly irritated to approach her in public, in front of almost the entire student body.

"Don't be smart with me, Granger," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Don't deny that this little article was _your_ idea."

She was no longer amused. She stood slowly in her seat and turned to face him. "Sorry, but being paired up in the public eye with the 'most celebrated Head Boy' does not appeal to me." She barked out a humorless laugh. "What, did you honestly think that I would be interested in you in that way? Looking for a _relationship_ with a seventeen-year-old _student_ that hasn't even learned how to cast a patronus yet? Or untangled himself from Devil's Snare? Or looked a full-grown acromantula in the eye and lived to tell the tale?"

She stepped up onto the bench, and then hopped down into the aisle; looking up into his face and feeling the skepticism and ire rise within her. "Did you think that because you're handsome and smart and magically formidable that I would willingly attach myself to you? You, who haven't dueled without _bowing_ first, whose little posse of perfectly pedigreed, inconsequential followers makes you think you're somehow _important_ and _powerful?_ You, who have never seen another human being explode in front of you, who've never felt the power of a dark curse slam into you, who've never had to wipe blood out of your eyes just to make sure that when you aim your wand, you don't hit a friend? You, who've never heard the screams of someone burning to death, who casts _Stupefies_ and _Expelliarmuses_ and uses _Incendio_ to light a fire in your common room rather than to light a fire that takes out an entire forest? You, who've never faced down a troll, or a giant, or a werewolf under a full moon? Do you think that just because you're tied with me for the highest grades in the school and make a pretty potion and are a seven-year member of the Slug Club that it makes you _special –_ that your Head Boy badge and contacts at the Ministry are supposed to _impress_ me?"

She paused, watching in fascination and satisfaction when his eyes filled with murder and no small amount of hatred. "Oh, you've got a medal for special services to the school, and your professors just _love_ you, _fawn_ over you; such a _smart_ boy, a _special_ boy, no doubt he's meant for great things, they say…and the girls eat you up like sweet cream, like you're the hottest thing since the bloody _sun_ exploded in space. You dress ever so stylishly and your lips are ever so kissable and oh, those shoulders – " She boldly laid her hands on the fronts of his shoulders, and felt the substantial muscles there twitch violently.

She inhaled shakily, feeling her wrath grow with each passing second. Her desire for him did absolutely _nothing_ to diminish her hatred of him. She let her hands slide from his shoulders and clench into fists at her sides. She gave him a shark-like grin, sure that it made her look like some sort of half-mad demon. She didn't care.

"Go back to your textbooks, Tom Riddle," she said, her voice calmer, colder, more dangerous. Because she _was_ dangerous. She was dangerous to him, and he needed to _know_ it. And if he was too stupid to catch on…well, he could deal with the consequences. "Go back to your classes, and sit your N.E.W.T.s like the star pupil you are. Go back to your warm bed tonight and think about how awesome you are, how accomplished. Eat your dinner surrounded by your adoring fans, and revel in your popularity. And when you've actually done something of importance – discover a cure for a disease, change policy in the Ministry, _lay down your life for a friend –_ then you can look at the world and gloat. You can bask in the applause, and know that you deserve it. But right now, Riddle, you're nothing but a young, handsome, charming, particularly exceptional student with incredible potential but little practical experience to back it up…who hasn't done a _goddamn thing_ to give back to the world."

She then pushed herself up on her toes and whispered in his ear so that only he could hear. "And don't mistake sex for romance," she breathed, delighting in the barely perceptible shudder of his body. "They have absolutely nothing in common."

When she'd finished stripping him of every _shred_ of arrogance, she smiled at him and patted him condescendingly on the arm. "Perhaps, Tom Riddle," she said, smiling to herself, "you should learn to speak to people in private to avoid embarrassing yourself in front of everyone. But at least this will effectively put a stop to that oh-so-annoying promulgation of our 'budding romance.' I don't care if we make an 'attractive couple'; I don't particularly like the idea of being coupled with anyone, much less a _boy_ who has a higher opinion of himself than reality illustrates. So, if you're done making an absolute _arse_ of yourself – you're welcome for the little dose of realism and humility, by the way – I'm going to finish my lunch, and continue the conversation with my friends that you so foolishly thought to interrupt with your _utter_ unimportance."

Letting the smile fall from her face and giving him the iciest, deadliest look she could conjure, she promptly turned around, intending on regaining her seat. A deceptively gentle hand on her arm stopped her, and she turned back to him expectantly.

He would either try to murder her right there in the Great Hall with everyone watching – in which case she would have a nasty surprise waiting for him in the form of a delightfully pungent _Probilium_ that would have him dead in two minutes; she didn't care _what_ Draco said – or he would gently apologize to save face and convince the world of his modesty, all the while planning on the best way to kill her later.

The latter won out. The rage and hatred and murderous intention fled from his eyes, replaced by an insincere understanding and bashfulness. He smiled down at her ever-so-softly, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, his voice gentle but conveniently loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "I didn't mean to offend you. And you're right. I'm overdue for a lesson in modesty. Your words were well deserved, and I accept their truth. We could all benefit from such an expressive reminder of our own unimportance. I appreciate your honesty; this poses a new challenge for me, and I welcome the hard work in store for me as I try to improve upon myself and set a better example for my peers. Please, accept my apology and gratitude."

She smiled at him, making it as gentle and genuine as his own; but made sure he could see the threat in her gaze. "I appreciate that, Tom. And I apologize in turn, for being so harsh. I often find myself judging others unfairly next to my own life experiences, and it's wrong of me to do so. I do hope that my callousness and thoughtless words haven't ruined our acquaintanceship. Your company is most pleasurable and your conversation most stimulating," she said slyly, emphasizing the word _stimulating_ as he had done not so long ago with the purpose of making her uncomfortable, "and I would hate to have thrown away a friendship of such potential with such a remarkable wizard because of my recklessness."

"Not at all, Hermione, not at all," he said with a smile. "This has been a most enlightening conversation – and I hope it's benefitted those around us who've witnessed it, as well. I rather think our friendship has merely been made more meaningful. Please do feel free to be as open with me in the future, and I will strive to do the same."

Very purposefully he lifted her uninjured hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against her knuckles. Like she had with his ear the previous day, he barely let his tongue slip from his mouth to taste her skin; it was so subtle that no one would be able to see it. She felt fury well up within her as he winked at her not-so-secretly and pulled away, brushing his thumb against her permanently blemished knuckles in a wicked caress, letting it glide over her scars.

"Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Hermione," he said kindly. His voice was outwardly sugary sweet, but she heard the darkness beneath – the promise of retribution. "I look forward to seeing you again in Charms."

"Likewise, Tom," she returned graciously, irate that it now appeared to the public that his interest in her had only solidified, likely confirming their idea that they were still well on their way to being a couple. Merlin, he was making this difficult.

In hindsight, she probably should have skipped the spiteful, demeaning tirade that had effectively sliced through his credibility in front of the entire student body – not that they all had been able to hear it, of course. But with the way the rumor mill was at Hogwarts, it wouldn't be long before everyone _did_ know.

She felt the anticipation of his retribution coil in her belly. It would undoubtedly be harsh. Her little tirade may have just cost Hermione her life.

Still, she had a few tricks up her sleeve. By now Tom knew that she was a formidable witch. But he didn't know how _much_ she knew. He'd never seen her duel, and though he'd gotten a glimpse of her ruthlessness and innovation yesterday with her condemnation of the Russian spy, he did not know just how cold-blooded she could be.

She had learned to chain up her good wolf over the years, had trained it to sit and stay while her bad wolf came out to play. It didn't happen with full impact often. Usually her bad wolf was but a prowling shadow, snapping at her good wolf and cowing it into submission when she had to do something particularly nasty that her good wolf actively protested against. But when she _did_ chain up that good wolf and let it fade into the background…she could do extraordinary things. Draco and Harry had often commented on her unusual and remarkable talent of forming walls within her brain and soul, effectively compartmentalizing so that she could perform certain actions without immediate emotional repercussions. It also allowed her to think coolly and rationally in times of crisis, which had kept her and many Order members alive in impossible situations. This was where her true power lay. The ability to shift her mind at will. It didn't always work – she was a woman of strong emotions, after all, and sometimes they would flood through her no matter what she did – but it had become a most effective system for keeping herself and her friends alive and, on the opposite side of the coin, doing despicable things necessary to defeat the enemy.

 _I'm not sure where that girl went._

 _That_ girl, her past self…Hermione had buried her _deep._ Oh, she clawed herself out of her makeshift grave sometimes, and often it made Hermione smile. But that girl couldn't do the things that the present woman needed to do. So past Hermione lived and breathed below layers of consciousness and _this_ Hermione's loose code of ethics that her old self couldn't stand to look at.

And in addition to her unique abilities, she had Fawkes. He purred within her chest. Despite his fascination with Riddle, he belonged to _her._ He was _her_ protector, _her_ friend; he was loyal to _her,_ and he had given _her_ his power. And no matter how much he was interested in having access to Tom's magic again, he was more interested in _her_ safety. He wouldn't hesitate to lend her his strength in a duel if it came down to it.

Of course, she didn't know exactly how much strength that would be, nor did she know the scope of her abilities yet. She would just have to play it by ear and see what she would get.

 _Sometimes, 'Mione, you just have to…fly by the seat of your pants, so to speak._ Ron's voice echoed throughout her brain, and she saw him shrug adorably in her mind's eye. _You can't plan for every little thing. You have to just wing it, sometimes, and hope for the best._

She missed him.

She watched as her nemesis (and perhaps future lover, depending on how things went from here – though the thought made her grimace in discomfort) turned back to his table, but did not give him the satisfaction of her stare as he walked away. She turned once again, for good this time, and sat back down at the Ravenclaw table.

She could feel all eyes on her as she poured herself more water from the pitcher on the table – she then transfigured it into something very close to rubbing alcohol, and swigged it down, forcing herself to not react at the taste. She looked over at Pepper.

"So, Peabody, you were talking about education reform? In Charms and DADA, if I remember correctly, yes? I'd like to hear more about that. I absolutely agree that there needs to be a change in education, particularly regarding DADA – but how much isn't enough, and how much is too much?" she asked.

A voice spoke from behind her before Pepper could respond. "Well, I suspect the Unforgivables are out."

Hermione turned and smiled up at Raven Flynn, who was looking down at Hermione with an inscrutable expression. "Probably."

Raven sighed dramatically and looked up to the ceiling. "More's the pity."

Hermione snorted in laughter. "Would you care to join us, Raven? Though this isn't my table, so I feel odd extending the invitation."

Raven looked over at Bertha, Felicity and Pepper. "Would you mind? I find myself in dire need of intelligent conversation."

"Er, not at all," Bertha said cautiously, knowing that Hermione and Raven were friends of a sort. "It'll be a melting pot of houses."

"Very colorful," Raven said, agreeing heartily. "I confess that I quite like it. Slytherin does get dreadfully monotonous – but don't tell anyone I said that. I do have to share a dorm with them," she said with a teasing smirk. She tossed her long, glossy curls over her shoulder. "So, education reform – Peabody, was it?"

Pepper grinned. "Call me Pepper, please. If we're doing away with old, stuffy formalities, we should probably go ahead and bite the bullet and get all of them out of the way. We'll either be condemned by our peers, or hailed as heroes."

Ignatius lifted his glass of juice. "I'll drink to that. School has gotten abysmally boring."

"I know, right?" Raven agreed. "Prewett – Ignatius, rather – would you care to go with me to Slughorn's first party?" she said bluntly. "I know you've got this thing with Lucretia Black – don't even try to deny it, that girl adores you and your skin goes bright red any time you hear her name – but since she's graduated already, and abroad in France this week, she won't be attending the party – which leaves you free to go with me."

Ignatius flushed brightly. "Er, yeah, Raven, sure. I've only ever gone to one of those before, when I went with Lucretia last year. I'd be honored."

"Excellent," she said with a coy smirk. "I'm fond of rocking the boat, but it's awfully hard to do by oneself."

"Good thing, then, that you aren't alone," Felicity said, looking unsure. "Though I admit it isn't in my nature to…rebel…so to speak."

"Well, no pressure, of course," Sabrina said kindly. "But I think it'll be rather…fun."

Zuri snorted. "More like social suicide. But hey, I don't mind," she said with a shrug.

Hermione smiled. "So we find a way to make it more palatable, even appealing, to the rest of the student body," she said lowly, leaning in towards them. "You would be surprised at how much fun mixing people from different houses can be. At my school in China, there were five houses, and the segregation was intense. And then the war started, and it brought everybody together, and it was eye opening, getting to make new friends that we'd never thought to get to know before. It created an interesting dynamic. Besides, if you take a look at Gryffindor and Slytherin, for example: a Slytherin is strong where a Gryffindor is weak, and vice versa. That doesn't mean that a Slytherin can't embody Gryffindor traits – I know many Slytherin types that are _unflinchingly_ brave. Draco is one of them. And it doesn't mean that a Gryffindor can't be sly and resourceful," she continued, gesturing to herself. "But when students from all five of the school houses converged and worked together, we accomplished incredible things."

"Different minds working together," Bertha said with a nod. "That makes a lot of sense."

"So perhaps we can make that happen here – only without the war part," Hermione said with an encouraging smile. "And it's not like it has to be an overnight change – all of us great friends all of a sudden, or something unrealistic like that – but hell, you form something like a study group, or plan a game of pick-up quidditch, or go to a party with a member of another house," she suggested, gesturing between Raven and Ignatius, "and it will start to catch on. People will start to wonder what's so great about it – they'll wonder why we're doing it – and they'll want to try it for themselves. And I bet about ninety percent of students will like it."

"The other ten percent would undoubtedly be from Slytherin," Raven said with a snort, doing like Hermione and subtly transfiguring her juice into wine.

"You shouldn't disparage your own house, you know," Sabrina scolded. "There are plenty of people in Slytherin that are more open-minded and progressive. Just look at Lucretia Black: she fancies the pants off of a Gryffindor, and did so while she was still in school, which isn't exactly typical, especially for a Black."

Ignatius blushed red-hot again.

Hermione shrugged. "It's things like this, ideas like these, that keep unnecessary conflict from happening in the future. This inter-house animosity is counter-productive and childish. There are real, relevant issues in our society that we could put all of that energy towards, instead of booing as innocent first years are sorted into a rival house. That just feeds the cycle."

There was silence around the table. "You are awfully wise, for someone so young, Hermione," Bertha said softly.

Hermione smiled sardonically. "Awfully foolish, too. It's not so much wisdom as it is knowledge born of experience – and my selfish desire to never have to participate in another war. But I wouldn't call myself wise. I am bitter, and angry, and very, very tired," she said, looking down at her plate of half-eaten food and pushing it away, no longer hungry. She felt so bone-weary all of a sudden. The energy that had come with her clash with Riddle had faded, and though she was excited about this talk of inter-house unity – a ball that she'd unintentionally started rolling but was ecstatic about – she also just wanted to go to bed. Plus, she was meeting with Draco later, and she was anxious about it.

"I _am_ sorry, for bringing the taint of my memories and experiences into this school and disrupting everything," she said quietly. "Almost daily I find myself saying something to someone that destroys a part of their fresh and innocent outlook on the world. I wish that I was a better influence on all of you."

Raven snorted. "Look around this table, Hermione," she said smartly, looking at Hermione with the typical Slytherin disdain and superiority she had become so familiar with over the years. "This is nothing if not positive. And that's coming from me: a perpetually negative pessimist that was properly placed in the house that every _other_ house dislikes. Trust me – you aren't a negative influence. Well, sometimes. But not mostly."

"Sure, there have been marriages between houses after graduation, especially when the arrangement is arranged because of political advantage," Zuri said with a shrug, "but you've succeeded in doing what has literally never been done before: you have three different tie colors sitting at one table, _amicably,_ pre-graduation. I don't think I can think of a single time in history when that's happened. It's…cool."

"Refreshing," Bertha said.

"Kind of scary," Felicity said, but lifted her head imperiously. "But I think it shows an ability to think outside the box. I commend you for that."

"I hope that this little social experiment will be successful," Ignatius said with some trepidation, breathing out a heavy sigh. "Could get ugly."

"Could," Hermione confirmed. "But fuck the rest of the world if they're not smart enough to catch on," she continued, smirking at them when they all gasped at her language – except for Raven, of course, who was chuckling into her goblet, and Pepper, who was wickedly rebellious by nature.

"Hear, hear," Pepper said jovially, winking at Hermione and raising her chalice.

They all raised their own glasses as well – even Felicity – and Hermione felt something shift in the atmosphere; something she had not anticipated. That ball that she'd started rolling unintentionally gathered speed all throughout her afternoon classes – Charms with Slytherin, in which she sat beside Raven and as far from Riddle as possible and ignored the hot stare on the back of her neck; and History of Magic, where she shared a table with the fantastic Pepper Peabody in which they passed notes the whole class, Pepper asking curious questions and Hermione answering them.

The ball kept rolling at dinner, in which her new and rather unexpected little posse decided to sit at Gryffindor table this time, and the gentle natured and subtly sharp Temple Bones (whose older sister had written the annoying article but hey, we can't choose our family, right?) and her fellow Hufflepuff Lynne Macmillan sat with them. Lyall sat with them as well, seeming a bit more hesitant than Ignatius was to openly accept Hermione's radical concept – but because he was friends with Bertha, he soon got talking with Felicity and was now deeply entrenched in a conversation with the blonde Ravenclaw and, surprisingly, Magnus Macdonald, who seemed very keen on situating himself as close to Hermione as possible at the table. His friend Buzz Johnson, the dark-skinned beater for the quidditch team, sat with Ignatius and the two Hufflepuff girls and Raven who, surprisingly, was leading the conversation. Her three fellow conversationalists were listening to her with rapt attention.

Hermione smiled.

Draco's voice echoed in her head. _If Dumbledore is right, and we are currently trapped in an alternate timeline, then that means you have the power to shape the future._ _ **This**_ _future hasn't happened yet. You have a chance to make a life here for yourself; don't waste it, Hermione._

Her good wolf wagged its tail. Her bad wolf sat passively, licking its paw but looking mildly interested, waiting for instruction. There they sat, side by side, in a harmony of sorts, both satisfied with Hermione's thought processes and content to just sit and watch for now. Both of them were ready for when she needed them; waiting, ever watchful, in the shadows of her mind.

Looking up towards the other side of the room, she met Riddle's stare. The terrible things shining out of those eyes promised challenge, intrigue; made her excited to be able to push her limits against a boy who was more powerful than she but less experienced. Her bad wolf growled and wagged its tail encouragingly.

She gave Tom a wicked smile, fluttered her eyelashes at him mockingly, and went back to her dinner, listening attentively to Bertha as she talked about her struggles in DADA, and if Hermione could help her figure some things out.

 _You have the power to shape the future…_

 _Don't waste it, Hermione._

oooo

* * *

 **A little teaser snippet for the next chapter:**

 _"Perhaps in another life," she whispered, tracing her fingertips along his lips. "Unhindered by memories, and death."_

 **So I'm sure you're all just** _ **dying**_ **to know about my computer situation…but if you aren't I'm going to tell you anyway, because I need to let off some steam before I throttle someone. (Hermione's tirade at lunch? Yeah, I wasn't intending on writing that. But I unintentionally used her character to release some of my own anger.)**

 **So as you all know from before, I took my computer to Best Buy, they tried to get my stuff off of my hard drive, put it onto an external hard drive and then transfer it all onto my new computer – but then claimed that everything was encrypted. Remember me telling you about my shock and disbelief upon learning such a thing?**

 **Yeah, well, that shock and disbelief were well deserved.**

 **First Service, the company that my uncle got me in touch with to crack the encryption, diligently looked into that external hard drive to see what was what. Then I get a phone call from Phil, who is shy and soft-spoken and wears adorable glasses and is** _ **totally**_ **intimidated by me because the first time we see each other I'm in a pencil skirt and red patent leather pumps and red lipstick and generally look fabulous because I had an office meeting that morning (I don't tell him that I'm usually in jeans and a sweatshirt and covered in dog hair). And I walk with confidence and speak loudly and articulately and he just…can't handle it. It's cute.**

 **Anyways, he calls me and in his adorable quiet nerd voice tells me that it's odd, that it was like Best Buy hadn't finished the job of transferring the encrypted information, because he can't find any of my documents on there. So I curse Best Buy for wasting his time and I take him my old computer (with my original hard drive still inside) and he thanks me (stuttering all the while and terrified of meeting my eyes like I'm about to fucking eat him or something) and gets back to it.**

 **He calls me the next day (today), and being the genius he is he's figured something important out: that there is no sign of my files ever having been encrypted.**

 **So I sit in stunned silence in my car on the way to a doctor's appointment, stuck in mind-numbing traffic, of course, because it's Raleigh (not as bad at Atlanta or NYC, to be sure, but they call it Crawleigh for a reason, y'all) and try not to cry as he tells me that he thinks that Best Buy accidentally deleted most of my files and then tried to cover it up by saying that the files were encrypted so there was nothing they could do. And he sounds so sad for me. Like he's failed me, somehow. And he tells me that he's hooked the hard drive up to a file detector (or something – I can't quite remember the term he used) just in case he can recover something, and it'll take about five hours to run and so he'll get back to me on Monday.**

 **And I ask him the dreaded question: "So, um, how much will all of this cost me?" And because he obviously feels so dreadfully sorry for me, and he's just naturally kind of sweet and awkward, he says, "I'm not sure, but I'll try to keep it reasonable." Which isn't really a good answer, but I'm too much in shock for it to register. So I thank him profusely (because things tend to go more smoothly in life if you turn on the charm, and also because I am genuinely grateful to him) and continue on to my doctor's appointment.**

 **Of course, I'm in excruciating pain all the while, as I have been all week since the snowstorm last weekend. And at the doctor, I find out why.**

 **I have** _ **shingles.**_

 **Yeah. That's right. I'm twenty-four and I have fucking** _ **shingles.**_ **I mean** _ **damn,**_ **could things get worse?**

 **Oh yes. Yes, they can.**

 **After that I go to the pharmacy to pick up my medicine for the shingles, and have to sit there in pain, listening to Fifth Harmony vomit their dumbass lyrics over everybody in an annoyingly catchy tune, for fifteen fucking minutes while they fill a prescription that was literally sent to them** _ **electronically**_ **about** _ **forty-five minutes**_ **ago.**

 **When I get back to my apartment complex I park, get out of my car, reach back over to pick up my drink… I spill hot chocolate all over the front seat of my car because fucking** _ **McDonald's**_ **didn't put the fucking** _ **lid**_ **on tight enough.**

 **And then I get home and hope to take a nice warm shower, and I don't have hot water, so I have to call the maintenance guy Carlos (who is so delightful, I've met with him on several occasions now, and he's told me all about Guatemala and his grown children and what they do, and his wife Nina, who bakes such good pies and he'll bring me one sometime and, oh, I'm sick? Well, he says, that's as good a time as any to bring me a pie… Such a nice guy). And he fixes my hot water so quickly and I smile at him and tell him I can't wait to meet his wife and eat her pie…and as soon as I close the door I just burst into tears.**

 **I call my Dad and Stepmom to do my best to ruin their vacation in Charleston with all their friends (not literally – it only occurred to me afterwards that I might have put a damper on things. Whoops). I unload all of my frustrations for the day in the form of tear-filled verbal diarrhea, and because I'm talking to my Dad who, since my Mom died, has become my pillar of strength and support, I end up just sobbing over the phone. At the end I'm not even talking about my computer or the shingles or the hot chocolate or the hot water heater or the stupid pharmacists – I'm now blubbering about how I miss my Mamma, and how I'm afraid of failing as I move into a new chapter in my life, and how I'm not sleeping well, and how I'm perpetually lonely because not only do I have no friends in this city (besides my boss, who's great but he's the one who gave me these shingles and now he feels terrible and I feel equally terrible), but I also don't really feel like making the effort to make friends in this city, because I just don't have the energy. I'm trapped under layers of clinical depression, as I have been for the last twelve years. There hasn't been a day that's gone by that I haven't been depressed, and it's just so exhausting. And I learned recently that I have a "genetic abnormality" that keeps my body from producing adequate amount of folic acid, which hinders the effectiveness of certain medications, so now I've added another pill to the small pharmacy's worth I take each day.**

 **My Dad is great, of course. Just great. I love him and my sister more than anything in the world.**

 **Anyway. I feel a bit better now, because I'm sitting on my ugly green couch, propped against my aunt's 30-year-old throw pillows that look like someone threw up and arranged the contents on a piece of fabric and let it dry. And I'm writing to all of you, because I love you guys and even though I'm not looking for your words of pity or anything (though they are very much appreciated, of course) I just like to tell you because, well, you're all** _ **out**_ **there, and you are reading my story and becoming invested in it and are kind enough to tell me how you feel about it. And I think it's great, this community of people that have come together in their mutual passion for fandoms and love for the written word. It's become my haven, a place where I can be myself and not have to apologize for it. It's a little slice of freedom in this mundane, routine world, and I cherish it. I hope you all do, too.**

 **As usual, thank all of you for reading this. Reading your reviews and imagining the expressions on your faces when you wrote them gives me great pleasure, and even more so with all of these negative things that have bombarded me this week. For those of you who don't write on Fanfiction, you have no clue how each and every review encourages us authors to keep going. They are all meaningful. Whether it's a smiley face or a "I love it!" or a full-on live review of the entire chapter, complete with quotes taken from the text – it doesn't matter. Every single one is fuel for me. So don't hesitate to just drop, like, a single period in the review box. It'll still make me smile, because you thought to do it (even though I have no idea what it means).**

 **Enjoy your weekend. I love y'all.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	17. Chapter 17

**Thank you all for such wonderful reviews! They are so eloquent and encouraging. You've really brought my spirits up, and I love you guys like crazy.**

 **I will say that I did have one review that threw me off…it was my first truly negative review. I understand giving someone a scathing review for a story that is just downright offensive. I** _ **don't**_ **understand the need to make an author feel small simply because you don't like one aspect of a story. This person thought that having the Daily Prophet being interested in a couple of school children was stupid, and snidely commented on how silly it was that Hermione was suddenly getting all of this male attention…I appreciate the commentary, I really do – I've told you all that I will always be grateful for any review, the good and the bad – but this is a Fanfiction story. This isn't a novel. It's not to be taken too seriously. Besides, it's one thing to offer constructive criticism – it's another to belittle someone and make them feel like their story is stupid. I mean I'm a fairly confident person, and like I said at the beginning of this story I am under no illusions that I am some fabulous writer, but this is my story and if you don't like it, just stop reading it. Unless you have something useful to say and can say it in a polite, respectful way, then just don't comment. I can handle it – I'm not some overly-sensitive crybaby – but it's just common decency. (Besides, it's not like they were on the first page of the newspaper – but think about it, the wizarding world is pretty small and tight-knit, and the fact that two people from across the world have suddenly been dropped right down into its midst is bound to have some tongues wagging. And Hermione isn't getting male attention because she's suddenly the prettiest girl on earth – she's getting attention because she's interesting, and new. Fresh meat, so to speak. Does that make sense? Maybe?)**

 **Anyway. It was just a tad bit…irritating. I don't like it when people are rude. There are ways to be critical in a helpful, respectful manner. But thanks for listening to me whine. You guys are the best.**

 **This chapter will include some mild sexual content. This is me satisfying my (and your) love of Dramione. But, like I've said before, this isn't, primarily, a Dramione story (sad, I know, but Tomione needs its time in the spotlight. Besides, Tom Riddle? Ultimate bad boy. This is an area in which he does outstrip Draco). And please don't make the mistake of thinking that they will somehow be fighting for Hermione or something. Like I've said before, this isn't a love triangle. Draco and Hermione have feelings for each other, and they've been through a lot together, but there's just too much history there. And Hermione isn't getting involved with Tom because she loves him or wants to be in a relationship with him – she's getting involved because a) it might put her in a position to influence Tom or, if things go south in the future, terminate him if need be, and b) so she can potentially keep herself in a safe place with him. Men are ruled by their bodies much of the time – especially young men – and Tom Riddle isn't immune to the weaknesses of mortal men.**

 **So anyway, this little Dramione snippet won't be as graphic as the scenes between Hermione and Tom will be. And this is the only time they will be together in a less than platonic atmosphere. Don't get hooked on the idea of them as a couple. Alas, it was not meant to be.**

 **Also, I had a question about how long I thought this story was going to be…originally it wasn't going to be more than 100K words, but you can see how that worked out. Honestly, I just don't know. Probably over 200K words though. I guess we'll find out.**

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oooo

If you love large, you've got to hurt large. If you've got a lot of light, you've probably got an equal amount of darkness. –Sarah McLachlan

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind. –Nathaniel Hawthorne

Where do you find the strength to brave a barrage of enemy fire and to bring your wounded friends to safety at great risk to your own life? Conviction. –Guy Verhofstadt

* * *

oooo

 _Saturday, August 17, 2002  
_ _Indonesia_

" _ **God**_ _, Hermione, how do you manage to look so nonchalant in this place? It smells like...peat, and rotting carcass, and spoiled milk, and that old couch that was in Grimmauld Place – "_

 _Hermione rolls her eyes and continues to slog through the swamp, murky water swirling around her knees. She does not respond. Pansy doesn't mind, just keeps rambling, pushing her sweaty bangs from her eyes._

 _Hermione stops, exhausted, and looks at her watch. "Draco, would you be a dear and cast a point-me spell?"_

" _Finally admitting that you've gotten us good and lost, Granger?" Zacharias Smith sneers from the back. "You have the navigational abilities of a fly trying to find an open window."_

 _Draco sets his wand flat on his hand and starts the spell, murmuring Harry's name. He sneers at Smith. "Oh, don't act like you could do much better, Smith. Every fucking tree in this godforsaken jungle looks the same."_

 _Zacharias sits down on a log. "I_ _ **could**_ _do better, you arseh – "_

 _A green flash zaps the air around them; Zacharias is dead before he hits the water. The three Order members that remain all duck at the same time – a blue jet of light skims the very top of Pansy's right ear, and she shrieks as the skin splits._

" _Run!" Draco roars, grabbing them both by the collars and shoving them in front of him. Pansy automatically maintains a shield charm at their backs while Draco and Hermione hurl offensive spells over their shoulders into the small horde of werewolves that chases after them. Fenrir Greyback is at their helm, his foul pale gaze gleaming with shards of feral yellow; the full moon is five days away._

" _Up the bank, Granger, get up," Draco says impatiently, scrambling up the side of a hill in an effort to get to higher ground. He reaches down and hauls her up behind him, and Pansy has latched onto a protruding root and is climbing up beside them. "Come on, Pans."_

 _Hermione casts a killing curse at Greyback, who yanks one of his companions in front of him to die in his place – he is too slow to dodge her subsequent_ _ **Expelliarmus,**_ _though, and howls in rage as his wand flies into the still, smelly waters of the bog. He launches himself at her, and she pulls herself up higher on the dirt, anxious to get away._

 _She screams in blinding pain when he digs his claws into the fleshy part of her calf and latches onto her heel with his inhuman teeth, the razor sharp incisors slicing through her boot to sink shallowly into her skin. He tries to pull her down, but Draco is there at the top of the hill, stabilized against a tree, and he casts shield charm after shield charm and reaches down with his right hand to grab her left arm and yank her to safety. Fenrir's teeth detach from her ankle but his paw rakes down her leg as he begins to lose purchase, and she howls as she feels the tip of one of his claws sink deep into her flesh and scrape against her fibula. Blood is everywhere; it soaks through the torn fabric of her pants and gushes down into her shoe, and the warm surge of it is sickening. Coming to her senses, she twists long enough to lift her wand and blast him away from her. He falls and lands hard in the water, immediately surging to his feet again, snarling._

 _Hermione is pulled up to safety by Draco, and he leans down to grab Pansy; but he is not fast enough._

 _They watch in horror as a poorly-aimed slicing hex takes off two of their friend's right fingers – her wand slips out of her bloody, mutilated hand and Hermione looks on as Pansy struggles to get it back, leaning backwards precariously as the little twig of cherry and unicorn hair goes flying towards the werewolves at her back._

 _Pansy's left hand slips from the root she clings to, and Draco's fist catches thin air as the brunette plummets backwards as if in slow motion. There is a brief flash of awareness and apology in her blue eyes before she lands in the water with an almighty splash._

 _Draco's eyes bulge. "PANS!" His voice cracks._

 _Immediately Pansy is set upon by the snarling crowd of cannibalistic werewolves, who are eager to get a taste of her milky white flesh. Hermione and Draco desperately try to stun and kill as many of them as they can, but they begin tearing and ripping at Pansy's skin and Hermione cannot stand the sounds of her friend's agonizing screams._

" _Draco!" Pansy cries desperately. "Draco, please! Hermione! PLEASE!"_

 _Hermione sees Pansy's face surface for just a moment – it is bloody and bruised, and pain contorts her pretty features as a new set of teeth joins the fray. Her eyes, though – her eyes are what will come to haunt Hermione forever._

 _The cobalt blue orbs are beseeching and full of anguish, but she is not asking to be saved. She knows she is beyond help._

 _She is asking for the deliverance of a quick death._

 _Hermione raises her wand, but the words die in her throat – it is like watching Seamus die all over again, and she is just as helpless now as she was then, and she is useless, useless,_ _ **useless –**_

" _ **Avada Kedavra."**_ _Draco chokes out the spell and it hits Pansy squarely in the forehead. Hermione sobs in despair as the life leaves those royal blue eyes. Draco hauls her up the bank and suddenly Harry and Oliver Wood are there, helping them to their feet and shielding them from the peppering of spells that are still being thrown their way by the werewolves that aren't feasting._

 _Harry looks down on the grisly scene and Hermione shrinks back in fear as his bright green eyes turn hot with rage. He doesn't say anything, just raises his wand and brings it down in a sharp, staccato movement – the bog around them begins to bubble and froth, and Hermione watches through a haze of tears as Greyback snatches the wand from a member of his pack and apparates away with a grin, Hermione's blood still dribbling from his lips and hands. Four others have the sense to do the same – the rest of them are consumed in the roiling water of the lagoon, which has taken on a life of its own with Harry's magic and has become a deathly trap for those caught in it._

 _They all watch, heartbroken and in shock, as Pansy's petite form is swallowed up in the froth. When they are all gone, Harry stops, and the waters settle down below. There are no bodies, no sign of conflict…the only indication that there was ever anybody there is the thin reed of Pansy's wand. The delicate red stem, decorated with small carvings of the blossoms of the tree from which it was made, floats listlessly on top of the still water. It is the only part of its master that is left. None of them make to summon it._

 _Hermione floats along in a daze as she feels Oliver and Harry grab Draco and her and apparate them away from the scene. They pop into the cave that they've been camping in for the last few nights. Luna is there, and Hermione feels the Ravenclaw's soothing aura surround her, feels a pale hand smooth over her hair._

 _Oliver is struggling to contain the vicious wound on her leg, and Hermione watches through blurry, tearful eyes as Draco drops to his knees and lets out a chilling keen – it is the noise of utter heartbreak. He begins to sob noiselessly, scrubbing his hands across his face. Hermione has never seen him like this. Even when his mother had died, he'd not broken down like this. But he is weeping openly, without abandon, and her heart aches._

 _What a terrible burden – the memory of killing one's best friend._

 _Harry whirls away, his hands tangling in his shock of rebellious black hair; he begins to pace, and the mad light in his green eyes frightens her. Suddenly she feels afraid for Voldemort, because he has always underestimated Harry's power, and now that power is fueled by even greater anger –_

 _Because Pansy had been his. Pansy had been Harry's. It was a quiet possession, one that no one mentioned but everyone could see. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before the two of them allowed themselves to officially come together. Pansy had brought him back to life after Ginny's death. She was his, and he was hers, and it just…was._

 _But that future was gone, now; unable to be finished, like so many others._

" _Harry." Her voice is hoarse and pained, and her leg trembles as Oliver tries to staunch the bleeding as best he can. Luna's hands still stroke over her hair. "Harry."_

 _Her oldest friend turns to look at her, his gaze burning with the fires of an anger that she knows all too well; that they_ _ **all**_ _know, by now. As he looks at her – at the girl with whom he shares an unfathomable bond, forged by years of love and friendship – the fire dies, and all that is left in its wake is a tremendous amount of sorrow._

"' _Mione," he says, tears springing up into his eyes. "Hermione." He sits down on a stone and buries his head in his hands and cries, his muffled sobs joining those of the devastated blond that still kneels on the hard ground, trembling._

 _It takes an hour of spell casting for Hermione's wound to stop leaking, and the last pain potion and a full night's rest before she is fit to travel. The next day they portkey back to Munich, where the Order has set up a safe house._

 _When they arrive Molly instantly bursts into tears, because Pansy is not with them, and she sees the truth of her death on their solemn faces; they can offer her no words of comfort. There is none to be had, now that she only has one biological child left. Charlie puts an arm around his quaking mother's shoulders. Pansy had become like a daughter to her, one of her children – much as Harry and Hermione are._

 _Hermione's leg gets infected a few days later – Hannah Abbott and Madam Pomfrey do the best they can to heal it, but supplies are dwindling and potions ingredients are getting harder and harder to come by. As soon as the infection clears, Hermione tells them to keep what they have left for more serious injuries. After about a week she is walking again, and in two weeks she is running again; it is not easy, or comfortable, but she has no choice. The gashes caused by Greyback remain angry and red for weeks, and she knows they will scar badly._

 _From the time she had been accepted into Hogwarts, Hermione Granger has studied all of what magic can accomplish…in the past few years of war, she has become more acquainted with what it_ _ **can't**_ _do. It cannot heal everything. It cannot save everyone. It cannot keep people safe. It cannot bring the dead back to life._

 _Sometimes, she wonders if magic has really helped them at all. Sometimes it seems more like a curse than a blessing; like it does more harm than good._

 _She misses Pansy dearly. Her Slytherin smirk, her girlish giggle, her fondness for Pepper Imps, her snobbishness, her love of Michael Jackson…the way she looked at Harry when she thought no one else could see her. Hermione had loved Pansy as a sister, and now she is gone, and the hole in Hermione's heart widens._

 _She tells no one, but the darkness in her soul swells._

* * *

oooo

Tom sat in the silence of his destroyed suite, staring into the empty fireplace.

"My – my Lord?"

"Get out," he hissed, his head snapping to look at the group of sniveling idiots that cowered by the door. Even Dolohov looked cowed – as cowed as a psychopathic killer could look, at least.

They needed no urging. Rosier was the one to yank open the portrait.

"Wait."

They froze.

"None of you touch her."

"My Lord?" Rosier said skeptically. "But she –"

"I don't care what she's done," he snarled, striding forward until Rosier stood plastered against the wall next to the door. "She hasn't done it to you. So you don't _touch_ her unless I tell you. Is that clear?"

Rosier nodded. Tom saw the spark of rebellion in his eyes. He ignored it.

"If at any point you can get her alone over the next few days, then do so. Bring her to me," he said, Hermione Granger's _stupid_ fucking face sliding across his vision. "Convince her, and do it _without_ hurting her. I have a feeling it won't be hard to get her to come to me. She craves the confrontation." He paused, and fixed them all with an icy stare. "But if I find out she's been harmed by any of you, I will cut your hearts out and chop them into tiny little pieces and feed them bit by bit to your familiars. Is that clear?" He didn't wait for them to answer, just yanked the door the rest of the way open and gestured for them to leave.

"Avery, stay," he said. Conan obeyed, watching Tom with flat, wary eyes. "Sit."

Avery say down on one of Tom's ruined couch cushions, goose feathers floating into the air around him. He looked unfazed, just waited for Tom to speak. Tom shut the door behind the rest of them, lit a fire in the hearth, and began to clean up, waving his wand lazily and watching as the room righted itself.

Unfortunately, Tom had always had a temper. He just wasn't usually beholden to its whims…but where _that girl_ was concerned, he felt totally out of control.

He wanted that control _back._

"Meet her out by the lake again tomorrow," he said without preamble, his voice still harsh with anger. "She won't be expecting it."

Conan cleared his throat. He looked…uncomfortable. Well…Conan Avery didn't ever look _anything_ , but Tom imagined that if he was uncomfortable, it would look something like this.

"Permission to speak freely, my Lord."

Tom sneered. "Fine."

"There isn't much Granger doesn't…expect."

Foregoing his wand, he reached out with his right hand and threw Conan up off the couch and back into the wall, suspending him there with magic. The boy grunted in pain, but there was still no change in those dead blue eyes.

"If all you're going to do is sing her praises – "

"You are the smartest person I have ever known or even _known of,"_ Conan interrupted quietly. "This isn't flattery. This is fact. And I'm telling you, my Lord – she might not be your equal, but she is as close as you'll ever get to having one, at least in your age group."

Tom breathed heavily through his nose. "Your point, Conan."

"You need to make up your mind, Riddle," Avery said, staring into his eyes coolly. "Kill her now, or get her on your side. If you hem and haw, she'll rip you apart while you're trying to decide."

Tom strode toward him, coming to stand in front of the younger boy. Still, Conan showed no emotion, besides a sort of physical discomfort. He shoved his wand into the pale skin of the boy's neck.

"And should I, Avery? Kill her?" he asked quietly.

"Does my opinion have any bearing on your decision?" Conan replied, eyebrow raised.

"No," Tom said, seething. "Probably not. I'd like to hear it anyway."

Conan rested his head back against the wall, seemingly content to just hang there. "I like her. But she isn't someone, I don't think, you can mold to suit your needs. She's been shaped by her life experiences, and I doubt she'll be easy to reshape."

"I don't want to reshape her," Tom said, letting Avery down with a wiggle of his fingers. "I want to _own_ her."

"You can't own her without reshaping her," Conan said, landing on his feet and straightening the collar of his shirt. "You can't possess her as she is now. You can't control her. She's dangerous _._ "

"Then I will break her," Tom said with a scoff, cracking the bones in his neck and sitting down in one of his armchairs. "I'll break her, and then I'll own her."

Avery shrugged. "The question is – what will she look like after you've broken her?" He leaned up against the portrait hole. "Will she be something that you'll still _want_ to own?"

Tom was silent, staring at the fire in the hearth.

He did not notice when Conan left, minutes later; did not hear the click of the door. He only stared into the fire, seeing _her,_ hearing _her –_ her face, her shape, her laughter, her biting words.

Even if he did try to break her…

 _Could he?_

* * *

oooo

"Your eyes are your most arresting feature."

Hermione sat on the bed, staring down at her overnight bag. She'd made sure Sabrina and Kat had seen her up in the girls' dorm before she slipped on the invisibility cloak and stole out, creeping past the number of people in the common room and out the portrait hole to come to Draco's.

Malfoy paced back and forth in front of his bathroom door, wearing pajama pants and a white undershirt. She swung her bare feet back and forth and tried in vain not to feel nervous.

"And?"

He scrubbed his hands over his face. "And looking into them makes the heart beat faster. Tom Riddle isn't immune. I've seen it. You'll want to make frequent eye contact – it'll suck him in."

"Makes the heart beat faster?" she asked, finally looking up at him and getting caught in his argent stare. "What does that mean?"

"There's something… _compelling,_ about your eyes," he said quietly, looking away. "Something mysterious that makes one want to look closer. And with Fawkes twiddling his thumbs in there," he said, gesturing to her body, "they've become even brighter. They aren't just brown anymore. They're…just different. It's easy to get lost in your stare."

"Do phoenixes have thumbs?" she said, trying to lighten the mood.

Draco rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "You're trying my patience, Hermione."

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I know you're doing me a favor – "

"Enough." When she met his eyes, she saw a spark of sadness before they hardened, turning to stone. "I don't want to talk about it. I want to do it, so that you won't make a fool of yourself when the time comes."

" _If_ the time comes," she said with a snort. "Now that _I've_ made a fool of _him_ in front of hundreds of people…somehow I get the feeling that his desire for me might have cooled a bit."

He snorted. "I would have given anything to see that," he said. She had told him about her lunch today – from her beat-down of Riddle to her conversation at the Ravenclaw table. "But you may have made things more difficult for yourself. You've made him angry."

"I've made him furious," she corrected softly.

"You don't seem very afraid," Draco said, crossing his arms and smirking at her.

She shrugged. "We all die, Draco," she said quietly. "I'm not afraid. I would rather die than lose myself in his darkness."

"You won't lose yourself," he said in return. "I know you've had some…issues. With dark magic. But the goodness in you, Hermione Jean Granger, runs deeper than almost anyone I know. You are compassionate, and just – and yeah, these days you might have a tendency to get a little carried away with violence, but you'd never hurt an innocent. I know you, Granger. I'm not worried."

She heaved out a sigh. She couldn't help the relief that came with his words. "Do you think he'll kill me?"

Draco cocked his head and looked up to the ceiling, thinking. "I think he might give it a halfhearted try – more of a test, to see how far he can push you. Despite your little episode of verbal diarrhea, I still don't think he wants to kill you. You're too interesting. And he's bored."

She smirked. "He is that. Also, the whole Grindelwald thing – he wants to know why Grindelwald wants the two of us."

"Grindelwald wants us because he naturally wants what Dumbledore has," Draco said dryly. "And we are a bit…abnormal. If we're being honest."

Hermione giggled. "Abnormal. Were we _ever_ not abnormal?"

"No," he answered, amused. "I was a rich, snotty, prejudiced pureblood that got to sit next to the Minister of Magic at the World Cup and wore three-hundred-galleon Italian shoes." He chuckled. "You were a rich, snotty, ridiculously intelligent _muggleborn_ girl that was best friends with the Boy-Who-Lived and was fighting the world's darkest wizard by age twelve."

She laughed. "And then we both got sucked into a fight that changed us forever."

"Our roots never change, Hermione," he said wistfully. "Our beginnings in life will always be a part of who we are." He fixed her with a piercing stare. "Are you ready?" he asked softly, changing the subject.

She swallowed as the air thickened in the room. "Do you feel nervous?"

He leaned back against the wall. "No."

"You're used to this…kind of thing, though. Sex things."

"Yes."

"How many women have you…?"

He rolled his eyes. "I haven't kept count, Granger," he said, exasperated. "Nineteen? Twenty, maybe? Somewhere in that ball park."

She swallowed. _"I'm_ nervous."

"I can tell." He moved forward and took her hand. "You trust me to watch your back out in the field, right?"

"Of course," she said, squeezing his hand. "More than anyone."

"And you trust me with your secrets, and your feelings."

"You're my best friend," she said softly. "My confidant."

"Then do you think you can trust me with your body?" he asked.

She nodded, swallowing. Her mouth felt dry. "Yes. Without a doubt."

"Then relax," he said, smoothing a comforting hand over her hair. "Think about that trust, and just relax. You're safe here. And you're beautiful. You have no reason to be nervous, or self-conscious."

She cleared her throat, feeling her heart swell in love for him. "Okay."

He backed away from her once more. "Another thing – the lip chewing."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Listen, I know it's a bad habit, but –"

"I'm not asking you to get rid of it." He smiled, amused. "I've gotten used to it, by now, but it's utterly infuriating, and very distracting. It draws the eye to your mouth, which is, quite frankly, very pretty."

"My _mouth_ is pretty?" she said incredulously. "Out of all of my body parts, my _mouth_ is the one you single out?"

Draco shrugged. "Which of a man's fantasies revolves around a woman's mouth, Hermione?"

She blushed. "Oh."

"Although believe me when I say that the rest of your body parts are not lacking." He gave her a slow once over, and her mouth parted at the heat in his eyes. She stiffened when she felt the beginnings of arousal.

"Your hair should be left unbound most of the time," he continued, taking a lock of her curls and tugging on it. He released it, and the corkscrew sprung back into place. "But if you put it up, make sure it's in a way that exposes your neck and face in the most flattering way. And don't hesitate to do so in front of Riddle. Pull it up into a messy bun and secure it by sticking your wand through it. Or throw it up in a quick ponytail." He gathered her hair at the base of her neck. "Men like hair. Especially when it looks like yours."

"You always teased me for my hair growing up," she scoffed. "Said it looked like a bird had nested in there."

"I was trying to convince myself, at the time, that you weren't pretty," he murmured, twirling a strand around his finger. "Of course, first and second year it _was_ pretty dreadful, simply because you didn't do anything with it, just let it frizz out. It started to smooth out a bit come third year. Still, you have hair that looks like you've just come from a wild romp in the sack. Automatically when guys see it, they think of sex. Also, shiny, voluminous hair is a biological sign of health – and all men, even Riddle, automatically look for women who are fit enough to bear children. It's a chemical thing. Everyone is susceptible to it – besides perhaps the homosexual. But that's still being researched."

"I'm glad my hair eventually started to become more manageable," she said sullenly, thinking of her rebellious locks. "Fawkes has helped."

"He's helped your skin, too," Draco commented, running his thumbs along her jawline. "You look healthier. Not so much like you've been in hell for the past few years." He tapped the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip. "And you have beautiful teeth." He smirked. "You're welcome."

She smacked him in the stomach with the back of her hand. "Ferret."

He stepped away from her and walked over to sit in the armchair in the corner, much as he had the night before. "You're thin, but you're starting to fill out a bit now that you have regular meals." He pointed his wand at her uniform skirt. It shortened. "Half an inch," he said casually. "Not enough for it to be obvious that you've shortened it, but enough that it will draw the eye to your knees."

"My knees are bloody awful," she said. "Knobby and scarred and – "

"They aren't as bad as all that," he interrupted. "Yeah, that left knee does look like you set it down on some broken glass," he continued, referring to the little ridges of a handful of scars that littered her knee. "But they aren't ugly, Granger."

"You aren't too far off," she said, smoothing her fingers over the scarred flesh. "It was stone and bone, though, not glass."

"When?" he asked, cocking his head.

"First Battle of Hogwarts," she returned. "I tripped like a clumsy idiot when Ron and I were down in the Chamber of Secrets. My knee dropped down right on a pile of rat bones, and you wouldn't believe how sharp they are. Not to mention all the rubble down there as well."

He hummed. "Make up a cool story for them."

She raised her eyebrow. "I have a cool story for them."

He rolled his eyes. "You can't very well tell Tom Riddle that you tripped down in the _Chamber_ _of Secrets_ , Granger."

"Oh, yeah – point taken," she said with a grimace.

"The best lies are built on truth," he said. "Use the same premise, just a different location."

"Okay," she said, twisting around on the bed to better look at him. "And the rest of them? They _are_ ugly, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged. "So you aren't Iris Fawley," he said matter-of-factly. "So your skin doesn't look like 'peaches and cream' or 'freshly fallen snow' or 'caramel' or any of that rubbish." He waved his hand in dismissal. "You wear your experiences on your body, Hermione. Every scar tells a story. All of your adventures and misadventures and all of your hardships are written on your skin. Your loss, your pain, your fear. Most of all, those scars say one very important thing about you."

"What's that?" she asked curiously.

"You survived," he said softly. "You survived hell. You have all of these horrendous scars, which came from some obviously very serious wounds, and speak to terrible pain. They show your power, and your bravery. Your scars say 'I am powerful, and as close to immortal as anyone is ever likely to be.'"

"And Riddle covets power, and immortality," she murmured.

"Exactly." He stared at her. "To us, these scars on our bodies have become normal. That's just what we all started to look like, after a while: Potter, Pansy, Lovegood, Longbottom. But to others, to people who have always had a soft warm bed and full meals and safe homes – these scars are shocking. They are both disgusted and intrigued by them. Many of these people long for adventure, long to have scars of their own that tell their stories."

"Bloody naïve, is what they are," Hermione grumbled. "It's all so glamorous to them, you know?"

"I know," he agreed with a sigh. "If they knew, truly knew, what we've gone through to get these scars, they would think differently."

"Even hearing the story about the manticore, though, and how Greyback gave me the scar on my leg – it's like it doesn't fully reach them," she said, frowning. "Like it's not real."

"They have nothing with which to compare it to," he said, wincing as he shifted in his chair. He conjured a glass and some water and gulped it down. "It's fantasy, to them. Before all of this shit happened to us, if we read a story about a group of people fighting against a dark lord and having to deal with manticores and werewolves and acromantulas and dragons and the bloody kraken – we would think that it sounded _so cool._ We would long for that sort of adventure."

"In those stories the good guys don't die, though," Hermione said with a sigh. "They defeat the bad guys and all live happily ever after."

"That's why they're fantasy, and not real life," Draco agreed tiredly, looking dejected. He looked back up at her. "There's no way for you to make them see, Hermione. Short of getting a pensieve and selecting some of your most horrific memories to throw them all into. You'll have to get used to their morbid curiosity, and the 'oh my God, can I touch them's, and the comments over how _exciting_ it all must have been. You just have to smile and nod. You can make scathing comments all you want, but it won't change things."

"I guess." She huffed, and dropped down onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. "I feel bad for making you do this."

He chuckled, and she whipped her head up to look at him. He looked amused. "You could never _make_ me do anything, Granger. I'm doing this of my own free will, because you're right: it _will_ help you. I want you to be safe. I know you're doing all sorts of research on my condition, and believe me, I've read up on it myself," he said, patting a stack of books on his dresser, "but if and when I die, Hermione, I want you to be prepared for what lies ahead. If you're serious about jumping into bed with Riddle, then I don't want you to be blindsided when you get there. A certain amount of innocence is attractive – too much is off-putting. You say you've only ever been with Ron, and that he was a gentle and playful lover. The two of you were comfortable with each other."

"We were in love," she said dreamily, laying her head back down on the duvet. "He didn't have the… _intensity_ of someone like Riddle – or you, for that matter. He wasn't dominating. He didn't make my heart feel like it was going to beat right out of my chest. He didn't make me nervous. It was familiar. We were friends before we were lovers, you know?"

"Yes, I do know," he said, watching her from where he sat. "I grew up watching it. Envying it." He paused. "I'm going to ask you some really personal questions now, and it's going to make you uncomfortable."

She sat up, maneuvering so that she sat up against his pillows. "All right."

"How often did Weasley make you orgasm?"

She blushed. "Er, one out of two times?" she guessed. "Roughly. Though sometimes I…helped it along."

"Okay – Riddle is going to want to bring you off every time, perhaps multiple times. That's exhausting, Granger, and can also be painful. We'll have to replicate that feeling tonight, so that you're prepared for it. He'll relish in his ability to make you lose control; he also won't want to be seen as being _bad_ at anything, and I doubt sex is any different." He paused. The muscles in her abdomen quivered. "And what positions did the two of you try out?" he asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

She cleared her throat. Her heart ached, talking about Ron, but she pushed the pain down. She herself had said the word "clinical," and now she had to follow through with it. "Missionary," she began, looking anywhere but at Draco, "erm, girl on top…doggystyle, once," she said with a blush. "It was odd. He didn't like not being able to see my face."

"But you liked it?" Draco asked, his head cocking curiously.

She blushed even more. "Yes. I did. Or at least I would've, if he hadn't been so uncomfortable."

"And what about oral and anal?" he asked casually, tapping the tips of his fingers together.

She recoiled. "Never anal. I've never – it wasn't…we just never felt any desire to go there. But yeah, I sucked him off a few times. And he reciprocated, though he wasn't particularly successful in getting me off that way. I think I felt too exposed to be able to relax fully."

She watched as he reached into one of his dresser drawers and pulled out a bottle of Blishen's. He tossed it to her, and it bounced on the bed. He raised his eyebrows. "Three shots worth," he ordered.

"But that won't even get me tipsy," she said, puzzled. "You know what my tolerance is like."

"It will loosen you up enough that you won't feel so tense when I finally touch you," he said, settling back into his chair. "But it won't dull your senses. Drink it." He paused as she uncapped the bottle. "Keep in mind that Riddle isn't some shy, inexperienced boy. I can tell just by the way he looks at you that he's been around the block, so to speak – who knows what he'll want to do with you? And like I've said before, you'll want to submit to him sexually. Which means you'll have to go along with whatever…appetites…he might have."

She shivered, her mind wandering. The image of Tom Riddle looming over her in all of his naked glory while she lay tied to a bed entered her mind, and she felt her heart rate double. She swallowed heavily from the bottle of firewhisky, enjoying the familiar sharpness on her tongue and down her throat. After she capped it, she looked up at him. "Now what?"

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Whenever you drink from a bottle, do it like that," he said, staring up at the ceiling. Two pink spots appeared high upon his cheeks before they faded away.

Hermione grinned. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" she asked teasingly.

He narrowed his eyes. "Take off your jumper."

The order was abrupt and unexpected, and Hermione lurched. She began to pull at her sleeve.

The clucked his tongue, and she paused. "Not like that, you silly girl," he said with a roll of his eyes. "That is the _least_ sexy way to take off any article of clothing. You do it that way in private, when it's just you. _Not_ in front of a man you intend on seducing. Grab the bottom hem, and pull it off over your head."

She was quick to obey.

"Not so quickly," he instructed. She slowed down. "You want to do it slowly, but not so slowly that it looks intentional. And don't worry about it mussing up your hair. Your hair is in a permanently mussed state as it is."

She tossed the jumper aside, and glared at him. "Was that to your satisfaction, O Enlightened One?" she asked scathingly.

He grinned. "Could have been a bit slower, but it was effective. Whenever you get warm in class or at meals, take your jumper off like that." He nodded towards her shirt. "Unbutton your shirt in the same way. Slowly, deliberately, methodically, but not at a snail's pace. Every move you make needs to be fluid and purposeful. Undress like you walk: with poise and confidence."

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, unbuttoning her shirt and pulling her arms out of it. She had been this undressed around Draco before; but never in this context. She felt her heartbeat stumble.

"Good," he said, his voice becoming rough with desire. Still, his eyes were calm.

 _Clinical,_ Hermione reminded herself. _This is a lesson. He can't allow himself to feel. Neither can I._

"Alter your posture," he instructed, tapping his fingers against his thigh anxiously. Hermione very purposefully did not look at the impressive bulge that had started to form beneath his cotton pants. "Sit up straight. Hold your head high. Push your chest forward ever so slightly." She obliged. "Try to always sit like this. It draws the eye to your neck and breasts."

She began to breathe heavily, feeling exposed. Was she really about to do this? Was this really about to happen? With her best friend?

 _The man you've wanted to be with for years, Hermione,_ her inner voice said. _Don't deny it. Let this be your chance to be with him as more than friends, and then let it go._

"Hermione."

She swallowed and looked up at him.

"Relax," he murmured, giving her an encouraging smile. "Trust me."

"I do, Draco," she said, her stomach quivering. "I do."

He nodded. "Get off the bed."

She complied, tugging at the hem of her skirt and looking down at the carpet.

"Confidence, Granger," he said, his voice sharp. "You want him to think that you're relatively inexperienced, compared to him – which you _are –_ but not shy. Walk that line between nervous and bashful. A little nervousness is good. It'll make him feel in control. But you have to hold your head high. You want your body to say 'Sure, you make me uncomfortable, but I know my mind and my body and take pride in them; do your worst.'"

Hermione lifted her chin, defiance in her eyes, but clutched at the fabric of her skirt to keep her hands from trembling.

Draco smiled wickedly. "Perfect. That look right there will _destroy_ his self-control." He nodded towards her skirt. "Unbutton your skirt, and let it fall."

She gulped. She did as he asked, and her body quaked as her skirt fluttered to the floor. She stepped out of it daintily.

He breathed in heavy through his nose. "Bless your obsession with pretty knickers, Hermione Granger," he said huskily.

She squirmed, looking down at her matching peach bra and panties, complete with the garter set and stockings that she'd already come to hate. He wasn't lying, though. Hermione did have one particular vanity: she liked her underwear to be pretty.

"But remember not to wear anything too racy," he said, his eyes gleaming with impeccably controlled desire. "This time period won't allow for that. Even if you claim you're from China and that things are different there, you shouldn't push your luck on some things. Tom Riddle isn't a fool."

"No," she said, swallowing harshly. "He isn't."

His lips turned downwards. "The likelihood is that he'll want to undress you," he said quietly. "Remember, he's all about control. But if not, now you know how to go about undressing in front of him. Think you can remember all of that?"

Hermione smiled. "Photographic memory, remember?" she said, rapping her knuckles against her head.

Draco bowed his head. "Walk over here."

She let out a shaky breath, and complied. He held up a hand, and she stopped immediately. "Now what is it?" she asked, rolling her eyes.

"More slowly," he directed. "Everything you do in the bedroom should be slower than what you do outside of it."

She nodded, and began again, floating towards him as if in a dream. He nodded in encouragement. "That's good," he said. "You have a naturally feminine gait, even when you get stroppy and storm off in a huff."

She crossed her arms, but straddled his lap when he beckoned with his hands. "I do not storm, and I do not _huff,"_ she said, narrowing her eyes defensively. "You exaggerate."

"Oh sure, Hermione." He chuckled, and she swallowed as his erection brushed the space between her legs. She put her hands on the arms of the chair to steady herself, suddenly feeling light-headed.

"What's next?" she asked, surprised to hear no tremble in her voice.

"Now you kiss me," he said, pressing his thumb against her bottom lip. "Kiss me like you're trying to bring me to my knees. Remember – confidence, but some hesitancy at first. Don't just jump right into it eagerly."

She clutched onto the arms of the chair even tighter. "Kiss you? Just like that?"

"Yes, you see: kissing is sometimes what two grown-ups do to show affection for one another – "

"Oh, don't be smart," she said, whacking him in the chest. She brought her shaking hands up to cup his jaw. "So I just…?"

"Do I need to show you the mechanics?" he said, raising an eyebrow imperiously.

She scowled. "No, thanks, I think I can manage," she retorted scathingly.

"Then –"

She tentatively pressed her lips to his, effectively cutting him off. She pulled away slightly, looking into his silver eyes for encouragement; his gaze gave her the push she needed. More bravely this time, she slanted her lips across his and ran the tip of her tongue across his bottom lip.

Something happened then: his whole body shuddered in a deep, primal way that had all of her womanly instincts on high alert. His hands came to rest rather innocently on her waist, and then he squeezed, encasing her petite ribcage with his long fingers.

They were hands that, six years ago, had been smooth and polished – the hands of a pampered aristocrat. Now they were calloused and rugged and heavily scarred from years of hard labor and even harder violence.

Funny, how time and cruelty had aged them.

She sighed into his mouth and deepened the kiss. He opened up to her immediately, and their tongues tangled briefly before he pulled back and nipped at her lips. She shuddered.

"This doesn't feel as strange as it should," she said quietly, stroking her hands through his hair.

"No," he confirmed. "I didn't expect it would."

"Perhaps in another life," she whispered, tracing her fingertips along his lips. "Unhindered by memories, and death."

He smiled at her, and brushed his lips against her jaw. "I'd like to think that there is an alternate universe out there where I can be with you; absent of dark lords and dead spouses and years of animosity."

She nodded, and she felt tears hang on the edge of her eyelashes before she blinked them away. "That sounds nice."

He kissed her then, and she fell into his embrace and snogged him as best she knew how. When they broke apart a minute later, he slid his hands down to her hips.

"Was that – did I – am I good at that?" she asked, her brow furrowed.

"Very good," he said breathlessly. "There is literally nothing I can teach you about snogging, Miss Granger," he said with a smile. He leaned his head back against the chair. "However, and correct me if I'm wrong, you taste very distinctly of mandrake leaf. It's not unpleasant, sort of like a…candied mint leaf, sweet but slightly bitter – but it leaves me wondering why you still have that damn leaf in your mouth almost a month after you should have taken it out."

She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God, I'd totally forgotten! I magicked it under the skin on the roof of my mouth, you see, just so it wouldn't fall out –"

"You can do that?" he said incredulously. "Didn't it hurt, peeling the skin from your mouth and shoving something under it?" He wrinkled his nose.

"It was…uncomfortable," she admitted with a shrug. "And there was a bit of blood involved. You should have seen Harry's face; he turned a very intriguing shade of green."

"I knew you had started the procedure to become an animagus, but I never knew you went to those lengths to get the leaf to stay. Where was I when you did that?" he asked curiously.

"Albania, I believe – with Viktor," she said.

"Is he the one who taught you how to kiss like that?" he asked, raising his eyebrow in question.

She blushed. "Maybe. And Ron – Ron was a good kisser. He taught me a lot. But anyway," she continued, "after it came time for me to remove it, I couldn't figure out how to get it out." She looked at him, slightly embarrassed.

He roared in laughter. "The great Hermione Granger couldn't get a bloody _leaf_ out of her mouth?" he asked incredulously. "Un _fucking_ believable. Of all the things to stump the brightest witch of her age…mandrake leaf? Really?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time." She paused. "'I suppose I'll have to learn how to shift, now…it feels weird, doing it without Harry. We were supposed to learn it together, you know? We just didn't have time."

"There were a lot of things that were _supposed_ to happen, Granger." He sighed, his eyes solemn. "Funny how most of them didn't pan out, after all." He tapped her on the hip with his hand. "Sometime tomorrow we can use the Room of Requirement and maybe get started on doing the incantation."

"I wish you could do it with me," she said with a pout.

"Believe me, turning into a bloody dragon would be cool as hell," he said with a huff of disappointment. "Too bad the last wizard who tried it couldn't handle the size change, and got stuck halfway."

Hermione grimaced. "Seems odd, that Rita Skeeter could shrink down to the size of my thumbnail, but going the other way isn't possible."

Draco shrugged. "Maybe it is possible. Maybe Arnold Auldbury just didn't do it right, or he wasn't powerful enough to control the change. But I'd rather not risk being stuck with the hindquarters of an Antipodean Opaleye and the head and torso of a human, if I can help it."

"Actually," she began, thinking back to her studies, "Arnold Aulbury got stuck in the middle of the transition and _all_ of his body was affected. He had a snout and horns and a tail and claws, and his skin turned rather scaly –"

She was silenced by a finger over her lips. "If you're quite finished, Professor…?"

She cleared her throat. "Er, yes. Sorry. Where were we again?"

"We were snogging," he said, his eyes flickering back to the calm, steady, objective grey they had been before she'd disrupted everything with her sentiment. "Clinically."

"Oh, yes, right." She cleared her throat. "So that – that was good?"

"Yes, Granger," he said, smirking at her. "You've been blessed with a rather impressive ability to kiss. Well done."

"Well, I'm sure it wasn't like that at first, you know – Viktor was ever so patient, and he was just such a nice guy…" She trailed off, swallowing when she felt his fingers slide around her hips and down the smooth skin of her buttocks, unhooking the velvety straps of her garters from her traditional sheer silk stockings. He moved his hands around to her thighs and repeated the procedure in the front.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, feeling her resolve strengthen. She opened her eyes. "I thought you said no intercourse."

"And I meant it," he said seriously. "I won't cross that line with you. For my own peace of mind. This is difficult enough as it is, knowing that it can't go anywhere."

"So…?" She swallowed.

He stood with her in his arms and gave her a slow smirk that had her heart pounding in her chest, disturbing Fawkes from his peaceful sleep within her. His fire flared when he felt her desire.

It almost occurred to her to be embarrassed, that Fawkes would bear witness to everything she was about to do; and then she felt stupid, because Fawkes was a bloody bird – not even, now; just the spirit of one – and he was now a part of her. His heat pumped through her blood, and she saw, just for a second, how her skin glowed golden-orange.

"So…what other things can be done that fall outside of the realm of intercourse?" he asked slowly, carrying her effortlessly over to the bed despite his poor health and diminished strength. "Can you name them for me, Miss Granger?" he said teasingly.

She smiled as he laid her back on the bed. This was an area that she was comfortable with – education. She would answer his question and tell him all that she knew, and then he would instruct her as he saw fit. Yes, this was familiar. And he knew her well enough to know that it was a good place to start.

She took a deep breath, and looked up at the ceiling.

"Well, there's…"

* * *

oooo

She woke early in the morning.

She stretched, touching the headboard of Malfoy's bed with her fingers. It was still dark outside, but she heard the shower running. She sat up, pulling the old t-shirt that Draco had given her to sleep in down from where it had ridden up. She'd brought her own nightgown, but it had been nice to wear something that smelled like him. It was comforting. Draco was safe.

Blinking her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she looked over and saw the crack of light coming from beneath the bathroom door. She slipped out of bed and stood, shivering as her newly bared skin came into contact with the cool air of the room. Hogwarts had always been cold. Stone walls and floors weren't exactly conducive to being warm. Besides, it was big and drafty, and magic could only do so much.

She slipped into the bathroom quietly, and Draco turned around in the shower stall, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes to look at her.

"Morning," she said hoarsely, moving over to the sink to brush her teeth.

"Good morning," he yawned, running soapy hands over his chest and under his arms. "Care to join me?"

She spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth out. "Yeah, just let me pee first."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Delightful, Granger."

She grinned as she sat down on the toilet and relieved herself. She hissed at the burn, her genitals raw and sensitive from the night before. She wiped and stood, stripping her nightshirt off over her head and stepping under the hot spray of the shower when Malfoy opened the door for her. She let the water run over her mass of hair and down her body, easing her sore muscles.

"Feeling all right?" he asked quietly, peering down at her with eyes that had darkened to charcoal with his sleepiness.

She stepped forward and laid her head against his shoulder. He let his arms come up to circle around her shoulders, his hands slick against her skin.

"Yeah, all right." She breathed into his shoulder, pressing the tips of her fingers into the muscled flesh of his back. "You?"

"Fine," he said softly. "Didn't sleep too well last night."

She hummed. "Nightmares?"

"Yeah."

"Which ones?"

He pressed his cheek against the top of her head. "The usual."

"Yeah," she whispered, thinking about her friend's past.

Lucius Malfoy had never raised a hand to his child – he was above such things – but he would give the whip to his personal house elf and make _him_ do it, the poor thing crying all the while. It was only ever two stripes at a time. At first, they hadn't scarred. But over time, they'd begun to build up, and now the skin of his back bore ropey scars that were far worse than the four slashes that marred her own. Lucius had never allowed Narcissa or any house elf to heal them. He'd claimed that a real man bore his scars proudly – and if Draco wanted the abuse to stop, all he would have to do was be _better._

But Draco had never been good enough to suit Lucius' standards. He was always in the top five students in his class, but never the first. He was a fantastic seeker, but had only ever beat Harry once. He was proficient at all kinds of magic, but had struggled to do it nonverbally while the likes of _the mudblood Granger_ was well on her way to becoming an expert by sixth year. He was one of the best duelists Hermione had ever seen – skill-wise he'd ended up being better than any of the people their age, including Hermione herself – and was incredible at Potions…still, none of this registered with Lucius. He was never able to look past Draco's flaws to see his talents.

And Draco had ended up dueling him years later, both on opposite sides of a war, and he'd killed him. Those dueling skills that Lucius had been so intent on ignoring had taken his life.

"Are you going to go run with Avery this morning?"

She snorted, still cuddled up to his chest. "I'm going to go out there, and if by some miracle Riddle lets him continue associating with me then yes, I'll run with Avery."

"I think you underestimate his interest in you," Draco said quietly, pulling away from her and handing her a bar of soap. "Riddle's, I mean. Besides, even if he does now see you as the enemy – you keep your enemies close. He won't want to give up that connection with you through Avery. He'll want to keep eyes on you, whether for nefarious purposes or otherwise." He paused, and shrugged. "Still, it's a good idea for you to be wary when you go out this morning. Have a shield charm ready just in case. Maybe in a few days when I get my strength up, I can join you."

She nodded. "That would be nice." She paused. "So you really don't think he'll try anything?"

"Not yet," he murmured, running conditioner through his hair; even though he was the last person on earth to need conditioner. Still, she would allow him the last vestiges of his vanity. There wasn't much of it left, since the war; there'd been no room for it.

She sighed and worked shampoo into her hair. Her brow creased in worry as Draco rinsed the conditioner from his hair and then slid his back down the wall, coming to sit beneath the spray.

"You all right, Malfoy?" she asked softly.

"Just feeling a bit weak," he replied with a tight smile. "As the days go by though, I feel stronger. The pain doesn't change, though."

She slid down to the floor with him, sitting across from him against the opposite wall and tangling her legs with his. "I'm sorry. What's the pain like?"

"Not as bad as the _Cruciatus._ But worse than everything else." He sighed, and rubbed his fingers against his temples. "It feels like I'm melting. Like everyday my insides liquidate a little more. It's hot and sickening and I feel like I'm constantly about to vomit. And it's…very slow. Like even if Madam Soranus hadn't told me that it would take weeks or months, I would know anyway. It's excruciating."

"How do you function, Draco?" she asked, her voice trembling with sadness for him. "How do you even walk?"

He shrugged, squeezing her ankle as it brushed against the outside of his thigh. "Sometimes it's not as bad. Mostly I just think about how bored and frustrated I would get if I just laid in bed all day. And I know you are more than capable of taking care of yourself – more capable than anyone I know – but I still like to be able to watch your back if I can. Especially with the likes of Riddle and Dolohov in the school, Grindelwald's interest in you, and the potential for more Death Eaters strolling through a hole in space-time."

Hermione sighed. "I wish that Harry would stroll through. I miss him."

Draco snorted, and leaned his head back against the wall. "Me too, Granger. I miss him too."

She grinned. "Glad the two of you finally decided to admit your love for one another – "

He pinched her foot vindictively and she hooted in laughter, standing up and continuing to wash so that she could go get sweaty again.

When she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her body, she looked back at him through the glass. He was still sitting there with his head leaned back against the wall.

"You going to be okay?" she asked, rubbing another towel over her rebellious hair.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Fine, Hermione. I'll probably be down by the lake before you get done with your run. Thought I might try some yoga."

She rolled her eyes and sneered. She _hated_ yoga. It was so…boring. He, Luna and Cho always talked her into doing it with them, and she always made the mistake of saying yes. She wasn't terrible at it, but she didn't enjoy it, either, even if she knew it was good for her.

"You and your yoga," she said with a shake of her head. She twisted the towel around her head and made to leave. "I'll see you out there, I suppose."

"I'll bring an extra mat," he said with a laugh as she stepped out into the room and closed the door behind her. She scowled.

Dressing quickly in the darkness of the cool room, she snuck out of Draco's quarters, looking both ways down the hallway. It was dark and free of people. Because it was after five o'clock, sconces flared to life as she passed. She jogged down to the ground floor, the pressure of her wand against her forearm a comforting one. She moved quietly and swiftly, her eyes and ears open for any disturbance.

She reached the lake without incident and noticed that Avery was already there, scuffing his shoes against the sandy ground.

"Hello, Avery," she said softly, coming to stand beside him.

"Granger," he said in acknowledgement, looking out over the still mirror of the lake's surface.

She cleared her throat. "On a scale of one to ten – "

"Ten," he said quickly. "He's pissed."

"And does his anger include any desire to, I don't know…assassinate me?" she asked casually, crouching down and grabbing a smooth, flat stone. She leaned back and skipped it across the lake, smiling as it bounced six times. She thought of Ron, and how he had been so patient with her in trying to teach her.

He barked out a laugh, and she looked sideways at him, surprised when his eyes crinkled with mirth. It was the only time she'd ever really seen him smile, or heard him laugh.

"You have a way with words, Hermione Granger," he said with a shake of his head. "Does it not bother you, knowing that he's angry with you?"

She shrugged. "Draco said something along the same lines. But as I've said before, death doesn't scare me. Everybody dies. In fact, we're both dying right now. Living is just slowly dying."

Conan squinted at her. "I never thought about it that way." He looked back out at the lake. "To answer your question, his anger does _not_ include murder. It does include quite a bit of pain, however."

Hermione smirked. "I can suffer through a few _Crucios_ if it will appease him."

"I wouldn't be laughing," he said solemnly. "It's not the torture you need to worry about." He paused, and she stared into his pale, impassive face for an explanation. "He wants you, Granger. _Badly._ You have made yourself all the more desirable by not only resisting, but also having the balls to humiliate him. He hates you for it, but wants you all the same."

"As in…sexually?" she asked, cocking her head. She already knew he wanted her that way.

"Perhaps," Conan confirmed softly. "Of course, he would never reveal that sort of thing to _us._ All I know is that he wants to break you, and to have you become one of us; or something like that. You're a woman, so I'm not sure how that will affect things. I'm almost certain that, because of your gender, the rest of the group wouldn't take kindly to you joining. I'm not sure what you would become."

Hermione skipped another rock across the lake, and then wiped her hands on her pants. "I have no interest in becoming one of Riddle's possessions," she said sharply. "He bores me." She registered the brief flash of surprise in his eyes at the lie, and turned away, wishing it were true. "Are you ready to run?" she asked, beckoning him towards the far bank.

He ran a hand over his dark hair. "I hate running, Granger." Still, he walked towards her, and they broke out into a jog.

She giggled. "It'll be good for you," she said cheerily. "Make you big and strong."

"And I suppose I should drink all my milk and eat my vegetables too, then?" he asked wryly.

She sniggered, but did not respond.

They ran for several minutes. She breathed through her nose steadily and deeply, used to the strain; Avery puffed away beside her, sweating bullets – but he kept up with her, and never complained.

When they got to the opposite side of the lake, she stopped on top of the tall rocky cliff she'd sat on Saturday morning to feed the Giant Squid – he was back again today, holding a tentacle up for her to deposit some toast. She did so with haste, giving him all six slices in one go. He seemed satisfied, and retreated back down to the water, that giant eye watching her all the while until it disappeared beneath the murky depths of the lake.

She looked over to the sandy bank of the school, smiling as she saw Draco in the distance, rolling out a bamboo mat in which to practice his ridiculous yoga. Avery came up next to her, peering down at her best friend with curiosity.

"What's he doing?" he asked curiously, cocking his head.

"Yoga," she responded simply, offering him no further explanation.

"A Chinese thing, I presume?" he said.

"Indian, actually," she corrected. "But you get the idea." She sighed and sat down on the rock, dangling her legs down over the edge. She patted the space next to her. "Come on," she instructed. "Next lesson."

With a huff he sat down, and she transfigured two stones into goblets and filled them with water with a whispered _Aguamenti._ He nodded to her in thanks and drank heavily, and then splashed the last bit of water on his face and neck, despite the chill.

This time around he was far more successful in navigating the corridors of her brain. They practiced for nearly an hour until he was too exhausted to continue.

They chatted idly on their way back down to the south edge of the lake, and Draco hailed them from his position on the bank, his mat resting on the place where grass became silt. He was only in a pair of pants, shirtless and barefoot, his nipples pebbled in the cold fall air. He was sitting cross-legged, his feet tucked under his legs.

"How are you feeling, Draco?" she said, coming to lay her hand on the top of his blond head.

He hummed. "Not bad. Stronger. See?" He stood and then went down into a squat, and then put his hands on the ground and lifted himself up into the crow pose. He held it for six seconds, and then gently let himself back down. "I can't hold it like I used to be able to, but it's a start."

Hermione had somehow forgotten just how attractive he was in the two hours since she'd seen him; seeing his body on display like this, his lean form taut with exerted muscle, made her swallow.

He looked up at her as he sat back down into his meditative position. "I did bring an extra mat, you know," he said with a grin, gesturing to the bamboo mat he'd laid down beside him.

"Yes, I noticed," she said sourly, rolling her eyes. "Maybe we can take a rain check?" She looked at her watch. "Breakfast starts in forty-five minutes, and I'd like to go change into my robes and freshen up."

"All right." Draco stood, stretched, and pulled his long-sleeved t-shirt down over his head. He looked over at Conan, his expression inscrutable. "Good morning, Avery. Have a nice run?"

Avery shrugged. "Nice enough, if you consider the fact that it's my new least favorite pastime."

Draco chuckled. "You'll get used to it. Hermione hated it too, once upon a time."

Hermione snorted, scuffing her shoe on the sand and turning up towards the school, her two companions in tow. "I used to say that the only things that could make me run were the promise of doughnuts, or if something very large and scary were chasing me." She shrugged. "Turns out that the latter was in high supply. I got so used to being chased that I started to enjoy the rush. The wind against your skin, the way your heart pounds, the struggle for breath – it became addictive after a while. That's when I started doing it recreationally."

"I suppose you would have to be in impeccable shape to be running from the likes of manticores and werewolves all the time," Conan said casually. "I won't lie – it sounds terrifying."

They did not respond. He was right.

When they reached the courtyard, Conan bid them both goodbye with promises to see them the next morning, if not at meals. Draco turned to her as the sun came over the horizon. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and skimmed his thumb over her cheek.

"All right there, Granger?" he asked, his clear mercurial eyes staring deep into hers.

Her eyes fluttered closed when he brought his lips up to brush her forehead.

"Thank you, Draco," she breathed, leaning into his touch. "For everything. For being here with me. For having my back." He pulled away from her, and she threw her arms up around his neck and felt his arms encircle her back. He laid his head against her shoulder.

"Anything for you, Hermione," he breathed into her skin. "Surely you know that."

"Yes," she said into his hair. She pressed her lips there. "Yes."

He pulled away from her, playfully twirling her ponytail around his hand. He smiled. "Love you, Granger."

She smiled back. Her bond of friendship with him was so deep, so profound – besides Harry, there was no one she loved more in the world. "Love you too, Draco." She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, as she had a thousand times before. "See you at breakfast?"

He sighed a long-suffering sigh. "Someone has to keep you from making a spectacle of yourself."

She giggled and twirled away from him, hopping agilely up onto a low stone wall before hopping down the other side.

"You act like it's such a chore!" she called back to him, walking backwards so she could see him there in the courtyard, leaning on his cane, his hair like spun sunlight.

He grinned. "It _is_ a bloody chore!" he yelled back.

She chuckled, shook her head, and turned, crossing the threshold into the castle's interior.

She did not see either of the sets of eyes that watched her go.

oooo

* * *

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _"Getting him to help you with your school work?" Granger inserted smoothly, a wicked smirk crossing her delicate features. "If you need a tutor, Black, I know a few second years that would be better suited for the job. I can talk to them, if you like – get them to help you with your spell-casting."_

 **Thanks for reading! Sorry there wasn't any Tomione interaction in this one. Don't worry – there will be plenty of that in the chapters to come. Drop a line in the review box, if you feel so inclined.**

 **Y'all are such gems.**

 **Giraffe :)**


	18. Chapter 18

The devil ain't got no power over me. The devil come, and me shake hands with the devil. Devil have his part to play. Devil's a good friend, too... because when you don't know him, that's the time he can mosh you down. –Bob Marley

The high-spirited man may indeed die, but he will not stoop to meanness. Fire, though it may be quenched, will not become cool. –Ovid

I'll speak for myself, but there's a lot of humor to be found in sarcasm and darkness. You talk to any paramedic, they survive by developing a pretty off-kilter sense of humor. –Nicolas Cage

Fever 'cause I'm breaking  
Fever got me aching  
Fever, why won't you explain?  
Break it down again  
Fever got me guilty  
Just go ahead and kill me  
Fever, why won't you explain?  
Break it down again  
-"Fever" by the Black Keys

* * *

oooo

 _Friday, August 13, 1999  
_ _Number 12 Grimmauld Place_

" _If you_ _ **ever**_ _undermine my authority out there again – "_

" _Oh come off it, Malfoy, they were going to_ _ **kill**_ _Nev – "_

" _I don't_ _ **CARE**_ _who they were going to kill!" Draco bellows, throwing his crystal tumbler into the fireplace. The firewhisky in it makes the flames flare up._

 _Granger shrinks away from his anger, her eyes going wide._

" _They're_ _ **always**_ _trying to kill_ _ **ALL**_ _of us, Granger!" the blond continues, exasperated. "Every single goddamn one of us has a giant fucking X on our back. We are all marked for death. The only way we survive is that we_ _ **communicate,**_ _we work_ _ **together**_ _, we draw out plans and each play our part. We do_ _ **NOT**_ _go off script and pull some stupid Gryffindor shit where you rush in to save the fucking day like some goddamned hero! You_ _ **abandoned**_ _your post – you left your partners behind to save your friend and you think it's commendable and_ _ **brave**_ _but it fucking_ _ **ISN'T,**_ _it's reckless,_ _and_ _ **selfish.**_ _In trying to save one person you nearly got the_ _ **rest**_ _of us killed. Wake the_ _ **fuck**_ _up, Granger. This is a military operation. You are no longer out in the world with just Weasley and Potter, the Golden Trio, making shit up as you go along, flying by the seat of your pants and relying on dumb_ _ **luck**_ _to pull you through. You are in_ _ **MY**_ _world, now, and under_ _ **MY**_ _command, and when we are out in the field and you are working under_ _ **MY**_ _plans and with_ _ **MY**_ _people then you will follow_ _ **MY**_ _orders. Which means that if I tell you to shoot, you shoot. If I tell you to duck, you duck. If I tell you to run, you run."_

 _He is breathing hard, his eyes pale and terrible in the low light of the fire. "You're a good fighter, Granger. One of the best. And you're an incredible leader. But you aren't_ _ **always**_ _the boss. You aren't_ _ **always**_ _the commanding officer. This was_ _ **my**_ _mission, and when you decided to play hero you almost blew the whole thing. I'm glad it worked out, and that Longbottom is alive. You pulled it off. But you left the rest of us in the lurch, and if it hadn't been for Ron's quick thinking we would have all been dead. Longbottom included." He scrubs his hands across his face, feeling bone-weary all of a sudden. "Go apologize to the rest of the group. You're grounded for the next two missions."_

 _Tears of shame streaking down her face, she nods silently and leaves, brushing her fingers against his wrist in a silent apology. When she is gone, Draco turns. "I was too harsh, and I'm sorry. I know she's your wife, but – "_

 _Ron Weasley holds up one large, freckled hand. He leans casually up against the doorframe, his trousers mud-stained and his hair wet from the rain. "She needed to hear it," the redhead says quietly. "It's a good chance for her to learn. Hermione's a proud creature. I love her, but her ego and her sense of righteousness can sometimes make it difficult for her to see. You weren't too harsh. Not for her. She needed that."_

 _Draco sits heavily at the kitchen table. He blinks the blur of exhaustion from his eyes. "When did you grow up, Weasley?" he asks, marveling at the wise words of his not-quite-friend. He and Ron will never be friends, though. It's just how it is._

" _About the same time everyone else did, I expect," Ron says, taking a sip of whisky and sitting down opposite Draco. "None of us ever really had a choice, did we?"_

" _No," Draco says bitterly, thinking of his own lost childhood. "We didn't."_

 _It is minutes later before Weasley speaks again. "I know how you feel about her, you know."_

 _Draco's blood runs cold. "Pardon?"_

 _Ron snorts into his drink. "Don't play dumb, Malfoy. As much as it pains me to say it, it doesn't suit you."_

 _He swallows. When Ron's cornflower blue eyes come up to meet his own silver gaze, he looks away hurriedly, mortified. "And?"_

" _And I want you to do something for me."_

 _Draco narrows his eyes at the redhead he'd once loathed. "I don't follow."_

" _If anything happens to me," Ron says. He does not elaborate. It is not a question, nor an open-ended statement; it just is. He lets it linger in the air for a moment. "Look after her."_

 _His brow furrows. "Surely Potter – "_

" _Oh I know," Weasley says, cutting him off. "I know Harry will always have her back. But…" He pauses, staring at the peeling, faded wallpaper. "It's different, when you love someone. When you are_ _ **in**_ _love with someone. There's a sort of franticness about keeping that someone safe. It's different from what you feel with a parent, or a sibling, or a friend. It goes deeper. While I know Harry will look after her, and that he loves her more profoundly than anyone knows, he has a bigger mission. He has so much on his plate. But you – you're naturally selfish," he continues with a smirk. Draco's lips quirk at the corners; he isn't wrong. "You'd keep her safe no matter the cost. You'd look out for her first, before anybody else. You aren't fickle enough to sacrifice this entire operation – the fate of the wizarding world – for her, but there isn't much else that you wouldn't sacrifice to keep her safe. To you, there'd be nothing or no one more important than her."_

 _He looks into the man's blue eyes and understands. He_ _ **understands.**_ _He remains silent. Words are not needed._

" _And if ever she were to…move on…" Ron trails off. "You would be good together. You and Hermione, I mean," Ron clarifies needlessly. He swallows. "If she gets to a place where she is ready to move forward with someone else, you better snap her up quick, Malfoy. There isn't much of anyone better suited for her."_

 _Draco literally_ _ **cannot**_ _keep his mouth from hanging open. "I – you – what?"_

 _Weasley rolls his eyes and stands, knocking back the rest of his firewhisky with a wince. "I'm not repeating myself. It was painful enough the first time. Just…" He sighs, and puts his glass by the sink. "Goodnight, Malfoy." When he gets to the door, he turns back. "And go take a shower – you look like hell."_

 _He scowls and makes a juvenile face at the redhead's retreating form. When Weasley has disappeared up the stairs, Draco goes to the cabinet and pours himself another glass of whisky to replace the one he'd chucked into the fire so recklessly._

 _ **Fucking temper tantrum,**_ _he thinks sourly._ _ **I've been around too many Gryffindors for too long.**_

 _Staring into the fire, he sips at his whisky until it is gone. Setting his glass by the sink, he climbs the stairs to the room he shares with Terence Higgs. On his way past the library, he nods at Adrian Pucey and his father, who are still awake playing a game of chess; Adrian's leg is in a magical cast, and there is a bottle of Skele-Gro on the table next to him._

 _At least Draco is not the only Slytherin in the Order. He has Pansy, and Higgs, and the Puceys, and his mother, and Tracey Davis and Niles Hanley and Gemma Farley._

 _ **We aren't all rotten,**_ _he thinks._

 _When he is in the shower, he stands under the scalding spray and turns his face up to the ceiling and thinks. He thinks about his dressing down of Hermione, he thinks of Weasley's odd and unexpected request, he thinks of his past and his present and his future._

 _When he is finished, he is no closer to figuring anything out than he was before._

* * *

oooo

"You missed Dueling Club last night, Tom."

Tom cleared his throat and looked to his left. Autumn Rookwood stood there clutching her History of Magic book, her hooked nose turning red and her beady brown eyes staring up at him in adoration that was slowly dulling to embarrassment. The tendrils of his mind invaded her own and, for the hundredth time, he subtly suggested that using his first name was _not permitted._ Head Girl or not.

Honestly. She was the worst of the lot – she thought that just because she shared the same title as he that they were _alike._ That they had things in _common._

She was _painfully dull._ As was every other stupid bitch in this God-forsaken school.

 _Not every one…_

He silenced the insidious voices of his brain and turned fully to face his classmate. He opened the door for her, rolling his eyes internally and wishing he could act on the strong urge to _Avada_ the hideous Ravenclaw. Instead, he merely waved at Professor Binns and continued to hold the door open for the rest of the seventh year Slytherins and Ravenclaws.

History of Magic. What a bloody waste of his time.

"I did miss Dueling Club, yes," Tom said, giving the tall, lanky girl a tight smile. "I had other things to attend to."

Rookwood smiled nervously. "I hope you don't feel like any of the things _that girl_ said were true – "

He noticed Bertha Higgs' clear blue eyes subtly shift to their conversation as she scooted out the door and hung back to wait for her friends…time for a little play-acting.

" _That girl_ is my friend, Rookwood," he said, cocking his head. It was an art: being able to sound polite and threatening at the same time. One that he had perfected over the years. "And I'd thank you not to insult her in front of me. Let's not be cruel. It was wrong of me to antagonize her the way I did, and she had every right to defend herself. She made a lot of valuable points."

Rookwood's angular face reddened. "I was only trying to – "

"Yes, thank you," he interrupted, giving her a small smile. "Your kindness is appreciated." He cleared his throat and let the door go after the last student, resituating his bag's strap on his shoulder and straightening his robes. "Enjoy your lunch, Rookwood – I'll see you in Ancient Runes."

He did not wait for her to reply, did not wait to hear whatever asinine response she would come up with; just strode off down the corridor, fully intending on hitting the library briefly before lunch.

At least, that was his intention. It just so happened that he didn't make it to the library – instead he was stopped cold up in front of the boys' and girls' lavatories on the second floor corridor. There were only a handful of people that weren't at lunch at this point, and they all passed by quietly until none but four were left. Curious, he stood in the shadows behind a pillar and watched the scene before him unfold.

Dolohov and two other Slytherins from his year, Alphard Black and Hadrian Flint, stood in the corridor, sneering down at an unusually small Gryffindor first year whose books were spread all over the floor and whose cheeks were tear-stained. A muggleborn boy, if he was not mistaken. Tom smirked and watched on as his three housemates loomed over the little mudblood.

Well, Black didn't really loom – he looked bored, actually, leaning against the wall and rolling his eyes as Hadrian put his hand on the small boy's face and shoved him backwards so that he stumbled and landed hard on his butt. Antonin held the Gryffindor's wand in one hand and his own in the other, and wielded the latter towards the kid, a spell on the tip of his tongue.

He sent a nasty _Anteoculatia_ towards the boy…

…Only to have it bounce harmlessly off of a pale blue shield.

"Picking on first years, Dolohov?" a cool voice said lowly. Tom peeked out from behind the pillar – Hermione Granger stepped out from the girls' loo, hitching her bag up onto her shoulder, her bright wand held loosely in her still-bandaged right hand. "I should have known. I hear it's all you Slytherins are really good for around here: bullying children. And to think," she continued, her voice like ice, "I was almost one of you. Good thing I was able to make the sorting hat see the error of his ways."

She was, as usual, looking rather fit, her hair wild and unbound, her uniform impeccable. Even from his position down the hall, he could see how her eyes blazed with the fire of justice that only a Gryffindor could house.

Suddenly, the humiliation of yesterday returned full force. Oh, how he wanted to kill her. Wrap his hands around her pretty, delicate neck and throttle her; torture her until she begged for death; watch the light leave her eyes as a flash of green light stole the life from her body.

Such a waste, though.

Then an unwelcome flare of furious jealously swept through his bloodstream; he'd seen them this morning – Granger and Mallery – down in the courtyard…he'd seen the way they'd looked at each other, seen the way the handsome blond had brushed his lips so easily against her forehead. He'd noticed the effortlessness of their embrace.

He'd been shocked at how much he'd wanted to kill Draco Mallery in that moment. That had been when he'd realized he was in trouble – that Hermione Granger, in two weeks' time, had scratched her way beneath his skin and now ran, rampant and unchecked, through his veins.

She was a distraction.

"Leave off, Granger," Flint sneered. "This isn't your business."

She grinned. The expression was made far less friendly by the look of cold hatred in her eyes. "I've made it my business. Besides," she continued, buffing her fingernails against her jumper, "what business could you possibly have with a Gryffindor first year?"

Alphard left his station at the wall, walking forward and looking aloof and like he was above such nonsense. Tom noticed that the blue-eyed boy looked disapproving of his two classmates. He also noticed the spark of uncomfortable respect in his gaze – like he new he was in the presence of a much more dangerous creature, and wasn't going to push his luck. "We were just – "

"Getting him to help you with your school work?" Granger inserted smoothly, a wicked smirk crossing her delicate features. "If you need a tutor, Black, I know a few second years that would be better suited for the job. I can talk to them, if you like – get them to help you with your spell-casting."

If Tom hadn't hated her so much, he would be bent over with laughter.

Black's lip curled, but Tom knew the boy didn't favor conflict. He was annoyingly passive, actually. Part of the reason why Tom had not collected Alphard was because the sixth year couldn't commit. Black was charming and roguish and smart, and the best seeker Slytherin had seen in years, but he was no dark wizard, and wouldn't be someone Tom could count on to see something through. He was…soft. Softer than any of the other Blacks Tom had met. His little brother, Cygnus, and younger cousin, Orion, would be better suited to Tom's plans. But they were young yet.

And Flint…Flint was just too stupid for Tom to want.

Alphard turned away. "Very funny, Granger. But I'll just be going. It's lunchtime, and I'm feeling a bit peckish."

Hermione's lips twitched, and she inclined her head at him in farewell. He bowed his head back in respect.

Black was no fool.

Dolohov wasn't either, though he had a sort of confidence in his magic that Black lacked. Antonin was the second best duelist in the school, amongst the students. He was secure in his belief that he could beat her in a duel. And he also probably thought that, with Flint by his side, it wouldn't even be a fight.

Tom was curious to see whether he was right. He did wonder about her abilities…her casting in classes was skillful but nothing spectacular; but he was beginning to think she was faking a certain amount of mediocrity, what with how easily she'd cursed that Russian man to die and how nonchalantly she'd disarmed two of his own followers in the forest last week. Currently, she was looking at his Knight like he was something to eat. Tom could almost see her lick her chops.

Once again, he thought of a cat and mouse, and of the little dark box of pain that was still lodged in Mulciber's mind.

"And you, Dolohov?" she said, leaning over and hauling the young boy to his feet. "Are you going to give the boy back his wand and scamper off as well?"

Dolohov did not reply. He and Flint both sneered.

She gave a long-suffering sigh, and looked up to the ceiling. "Very well." She crouched down to the floor, coming eye to eye with the little muggleborn boy. "Khalid, right? Khalid Amari?" she said gently, straightening the boy's tie with a smile. It was a genuine smile, kind and gentle, and Tom saw it reach her eyes. It was interesting, watching how her expression softened whilst addressing the boy. It was a vast difference from the cold masks of indifference, scorn and anger that he'd seen most often, or even the confident, pleasant, cool countenance she sported whilst amongst her friends.

The boy nodded his head, swallowing.

"Why don't you take your bag and go on down to lunch?" she suggested kindly. She waved her wand, and all of his books and school supplies righted themselves and flew into his bag. "I'll get your wand back and meet you down there, all right?"

He nodded and, without looking back, grabbed his bag and flew off down the hall towards the staircase.

She straightened, and cracked her neck. The sound was oddly ominous. She turned towards Dolohov and Flint.

"I've always loved watching bullies humiliate themselves," she said softly, a smile playing around the corners of her lips. "You don't even need any help. Picking on a muggleborn first year half your size?" She snorted. "It's pathetic." She held out her hand towards Dolohov and looked him dead in the eye. "Give me his wand. Now."

Her voice sent delightful chills down Tom's spine. He shuddered. He saw a muscle twitch in Antonin's cheek.

"Or what, you stupid bint?" Flint sneered, his voice rough and stupid, just like his dumb, brutish face.

She didn't even raise her wand, only smiled at them, looking amused. "Or feel free to find out." She tapped her wand against her thigh, and it drew Tom's eye there, to the smooth skin he'd felt only forty-eight hours before.

Flint raised his wand, but her sharp laugh cut him off before he could say anything. He hesitated.

"Oh no, please," she said mockingly. "Be my guest. Please do it." She took another step towards them. Dolohov's wand was nearly touching her breastbone. "It would give me an excuse."

Dolohov did not move. Flint looked less than certain. "An excuse to what?" the thick boy asked.

"To kill you, you daft creature," she snarled, her hair crackling with orange sparks. "Or at least permanently disfigure you. I'd claim it was an accident, of course. That you attacked first, and that I was only defending myself. The poor little orphaned refugee, you see – only acting on instinct…" She trailed off, her words and intentions ringing out clearly in the silence of the hall.

She held out her hand again. "The wand, Antonin," she said lowly. "If you wish to avoid a duel that you will most certainly lose."

Dolohov hesitated, but brought the little boy's wand up and placed it in her hand. "Perhaps you'd like to test that theory out in Dueling Club on Saturday night," the Russian said, his lip curling up in disdain.

She grinned and swiftly pocketed Amari's wand. "That sounds delightful; unfortunately, I will be out of the country. So it'll have to wait until Monday evening." She boldly put a hand on his outstretched arm and pushed it to the side. She stepped past the pair, looking entertained. "Be careful with your arrogance, Dolohov."

He sneered and turned to look after her. "I could say the same to you."

She chuckled, pocketing her wand and continuing further down the hallway. "I'm not arrogant. I'm confident. I am ninety-nine percent certain that I can, and will, beat you in a duel. That's not arrogance." She turned her head around. "That's fact." She smiled at them. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

After she was finished and had turned the corner towards the staircase, Tom stepped into the light, surprising the two sixth years that still stood there, looking humiliated.

"Riddle," Flint said in acknowledgement, looking uncomfortable. "We didn't see you there."

"Leave, Flint," Tom said with a sneer. "Go to lunch. I wish to speak with Antonin alone."

Tom saw jealousy flash across the younger boy's face for a brief moment, but he obeyed and headed off towards the staircase.

"My Lord?" Dolohov said in question. His inky black eyes were intense and cruel as they always were. There was a spark of mortification in them now, however.

"You were wise in choosing not to engage," he said, motioning for Dolohov to follow him. He would have to hit the library after Ancient Runes – he was famished, all of a sudden, and once again felt a spark of irritation at the knowledge that he was human and therefore had to participate in the mundane practice of eating.

"You were very clear in your instructions not to," Antonin said, his voice soft and gravelly. "I do hope you plan on giving her a lesson in respect sooner rather than later."

Tom's lips quirked. "As soon as the proper opportunity presents itself, yes," he said, looking sideways at his follower. "But a situation like this calls for a bit more delicacy than usual."

"She is a…mysterious woman, it seems," Dolohov said with a sneer.

"Yes," Tom confirmed quietly. "Best to use mitts when handling a hot cauldron, Dolohov," he said, thinking the analogy was especially appropriate. "You will most certainly be hurt if you don't."

* * *

oooo

The next two days were torture for Tom. Granger and Mallery both were avoiding him very purposefully, it seemed – Tom had been so sure that Granger would make a move. He'd been so sure that she was craving the same confrontation he was. He hadn't even been able to catch her alone at all; she was always with Mallery or with one or more of her little _friends_ from the new, ever expanding clique that was forming around her – usually Flynn, Peabody, Higgs, Snowborn and Prewett. He'd also seen her down by the lake with the muggleborn boy Khalid Amari, patiently teaching him _Protego_ and _Expelliarmus._ It was way beyond first year magic, but she seemed to be a good instructor, and the small boy was slowly but surely getting the hang of it.

He'd also noticed a lot of interest on the parts of various boys – Granger, it would seem, had become something of a celebrity. Magnus Macdonald and Colt Diggory were absolutely ridiculous in their pursuance of her, and to Tom's delight it seemed to make her more than a little uncomfortable. It was not the same discomfort she displayed around him: the nervous startled rabbit followed up by the flash of desire followed still by the snarling cornered tiger. With them, it was a genuine "I don't want to be around you" sort of discomfort – not the "you make my heart beat a thousand times per minute" discomfort.

He would admit, knowing he made her feel that way was a heady aphrodisiac.

But even so, he could not stop the odd twang of possessiveness that pinched whenever he saw Nott's hungry gaze follow her as she sashayed away, or the pathetic puppy-dog eyes Macdonald made when he asked her to sit with him, or the way that even Black, after their little interaction in the hall on Tuesday morning, had taken to watching her curiously.

He didn't care for it…and he hated that he didn't care for it. He hated that he cared at _all._

He was glad when circumstances finally forced them together – she had agreed to partner with him in Potions, after all, and on Thursday morning he made a beeline for her table, Thoros trailing in his wake.

Raven greeted him with a cool smirk. "Morning Riddle."

"Flynn," he returned with a nod. He liked the dark-haired American. She had transferred in as a second year, and though they had never talked much in the six years they'd gone to school together, he knew that, for a woman, she was clever and magically gifted. He might consider recruiting her…if she were male.

Of course, as he'd gotten older, he'd realized that not all women were magically inferior. Some of them had a good bit of talent and were interested in more than landing a husband and having babies and going to high-society functions. He certainly respected many of his female professors. Professor Merrythought was very sharp, and certainly skilled with a wand. Professor Fancourt had invented the lunascope by age twenty-four – though she wasn't much good for anything other than astronomy, if he were being honest. Professor Rohn was a gifted teacher, and smart. But on the whole, women did not possess the raw power that men did, magically or physically.

It didn't mean that they couldn't be useful, however; or that there mightn't be exceptions.

Either way, he wasn't certain his Knights would be open to having a woman thrust into their midst. Ultimately, of course, it was his decision, who to induct and who to not, but he did try to keep them content.

If one did not feed the dogs, they were liable to turn on their master.

"How are you this morning, Tom?"

Tom was jolted out of his musings and looked to his right, where Hermione had just appeared with her Potions book. Her eyes were bright and cheerful and full of cool humor, as was usual.

"I'm well. And you? It's been a couple of days since we last…spoke." He could not help the tinge of sourness that colored his words.

She winced. "Listen, Tom, about that – "

He waved her away. "Water under the bridge, Hermione. No worries. We all say things we don't mean."

She chortled. "Oh, I meant every word," she said, gathering her ridiculous hair in both hands and tying it up into a ponytail with a Gryffindor red ribbon. Typical. "I just should have taken our conversation to a more…private…location. And been more tactful about my delivery. But, as you say, water under the bridge."

She fluttered her eyelashes at him teasingly, and he glowered. "I'm not so certain, Granger, that it would have _ended_ as a simple _conversation_ had we been in a more private location."

Her smile was quick and dazzling, almost as distracting as the newly bared skin on the back of her neck. She did not say anything in response, just shook her head amusedly and turned to greet Thoros. "Hello, Nott. Doing all right this morning?"

Thoros smiled at her. "Can't complain, Granger. And you?"

Hermione shrugged. "Well enough, I suppose. Are you all ready to start on the Polyjuice? I've already cleared a space with Professor Slughorn to brew – there's an unused office just down the hall that I thought would make a good place to set up shop."

Tom's eyebrows rose. "You certainly move fast."

Hermione shrugged, gracing him with a small smile. "I figured I'd get a head start on the other three groups – this way we don't have to hike up to an upper floor to an empty classroom every day to check on the brew. It's close to the classroom, as well as just a short walk away from the Slytherin dorm."

"Quick thinking," Nott said with a bow of his head. "Shall I start to grab ingredients?"

"I'll help," Raven said. The two brunettes headed off towards the storeroom.

Tom snorted, looking around the room. Many of the students milled around each other, trying to figure out their next steps. "Looks like most people haven't even figured out their groups yet," he said amusedly.

Hermione smirked. "Perhaps they'll have started brewing by the time we get all of ours finished," she said sarcastically.

He snorted in amusement. "Perhaps," he murmured in agreement. "You want to get a cauldron? I'll grab measuring cups and a stirring rod."

"Actually, I have a couple of cauldrons that are better quality than the ones that the school owns. I've already got Slughorn's approval to use them, as long as we don't openly advertise it." She grinned. "He certainly has no compunctions about singling out his favorite students."

"No, he doesn't," Tom said with a raised eyebrow. "But I thought noble Gryffindors were supposed to be above that sort of manipulation. You know, in the interest of being fair and all that rot."

Hermione barked out a sardonic laugh. "Yes, well, life isn't fair. Once I figured that out, I realized that being noble and fair about everything was a futile effort. If you want to do well in life, you use what tools are available to you to get ahead."

Tom looked at her, taking in the flash of her eyes and the stern set of her jaw. "How very… _Slytherin_ of you. Not to disparage my own house – I happen to admire those traits, and possess them in spades myself. Still. I watch you get all soft around the younger students, and I see you help your classmates when they are struggling in classes. Predictable Gryffindor behavior. Not the kind of person I would expect to admit to climbing over other people to make it to the top of the heap."

"Ah, but you see, I never admitted to climbing over other people," she said with a smirk. "I admitted to using my own strengths, manipulation among them, to succeed. I would never trod on somebody else's chance for success. I work hard, Riddle. If I outperform others, it's by my own merit, using my own skills. Do I think it's fair?" she asked rhetorically. She shrugged. "Not really. Everybody is given different gifts. We are not all created equal. If I'm better at something than someone else, I'm not going to feel guilty about it. And even though I have a terrible competitive streak, if someone else is better at something than I am, I'm not going to begrudge them their success. Once upon a time I would have. Then I grew up." She sighed. "I'm going to go grab a stirring rod and tools. If you'll help Raven and Nott carry ingredients, we can all walk together to our designated room."

Tom gritted his teeth and resisted the overwhelming urge to ask her more questions. He wanted to know more. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted her to be his – to be his to command, his to use…

His to fuck.

And she _would_ be his. He would own her. He just had to be patient.

As he scooted by her to make his way to where Flynn and Nott were exiting the storeroom, he put his hands around her small waist and maneuvered her out of the way, pushing her forward into the desk and brushing his chest against her back as he squeezed by. He delighted in the shudder that pulsed through her body as soon as his fingers encircled her ribcage.

"Pardon," he murmured smoothly, relishing in the flush that crawled up her neck and cheeks. She did not respond, but he heard her swallow. Reluctantly, he let his hands slide from her person and moved away towards the storeroom, not looking back for fear that the certain blush on her face and heat in her eyes might prompt him to do something…foolish. He already felt bereft as the warmth of her body faded.

"Oh, thanks Riddle," Flynn said as he reached out to take some of the jars from her hands. He took a couple from Thoros as well. The boy nodded his gratitude.

When they got back to the table, Hermione was already toting the proper tools, two books and a curious purple bag that looked like it had been to hell and back. "Ready?" she said, faint traces of her blush still clinging to her cheekbones.

"Show us the way, oh fearless leader," Raven said cheekily. Hermione gave her a sassy smirk. Flynn grinned.

Granger turned on her heel and strode out of the classroom, not even looking in his direction once; his lips curved in satisfaction.

It took them less than a minute to reach the office she had reserved for them. It was small and lacked windows, but it had a large desk and enough sconces to provide adequate light. With a simple snap of her fingers all of the torches flared to life.

Nott's eyebrows shot into his hairline at the display of wandless, nonverbal magic. Tom was not surprised; after she'd nearly disarmed him in the bathroom two weeks ago, he'd realized that she had a fair knowledge of wandless magic. Still, fire was notoriously difficult to control, so he couldn't help but be impressed.

They began to set up shop, discussing the best place for everything. Raven looked up sharply. "I thought the two of you were going to take care of cauldrons?" she drawled, raising a disapproving eyebrow.

"Oh! Yes," Hermione said quickly. Immediately she pulled out her beaded purple bag. "Give me one moment." She opened the bag, and immediately stepped down into it. She smiled. "Just put the stairs and a light in last week. I was tired of rooting around in the dark."

Tom looked down after her, but admittedly he couldn't see much of anything besides the quickly disappearing top of Hermione's head. The light inside was muted. He saw some rickety wooden steps, and what looked to be a giant cache of books. Other than that, it was all obscured; only vague, shadowy outlines. He thought he heard the opening of a vault door, and wished desperately to see what was in it.

"I thought undetectable extension spells were illegal, Hermione," Raven called down to her, sounding more amused than anything.

He heard Hermione chuckle as she ascended the stairs. "Yes, well, war-torn China isn't exactly a place that encourages legal practices. Murder is illegal, and there's tons of that going around right now…I hardly think that a simple, rather harmless charm is going to hurt anyone, wouldn't you agree?" She grinned mischievously as she stepped daintily out of the bag. "And anyone who doesn't agree will quickly find their memories unreliable."

The threat hung heavy in the air. None of them said a word against it. Firstly, Slytherins were all about self-preservation, and anyone with a brain could see that Hermione Granger could be dangerous – though to what extent, Tom wasn't sure. Secondly, they were a tight knit group, and knew the value of secrets; they also knew the power of potentially having something to hold over someone's head. Thirdly, Slytherins were generally loyal to their own, and whether intentionally or not, Hermione Granger had settled herself very firmly in good standing with all houses, including, to an extent, the exclusive serpents. Tom wouldn't lie: it irritated him.

With a wave of her wand, the bag closed and shrunk down to the size of his thumbnail – she promptly tucked it into her right sock, and Tom saw Nott wince as he got a glimpse of her scars before she settled the cotton back in place.

She set a heavy seven-gallon cauldron on the middle of the table. Nott whistled and flicked it with his finger. "Solid gold, Granger?" he asked. "I shudder to think about how much that cost."

Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You're filthy rich, Nott. Don't pretend that you couldn't buy a hundred of these without batting an eyelash."

Nott shrugged. "Still. That had to cost at least two thousand galleons."

Hermione frowned. "I never asked. It's Draco's. His mother gifted three of them to him a few years ago – a four-gallon, a seven-gallon and a ten-gallon. I have to admit: they really do improve the quality of the brew. And though I've brewed Polyjuice a million times, and it's really not as hard as people think it is once you get the hang of it, it can still be tricky. Timing is everything, as well as good ingredients and good equipment." She rubbed her hands together. "So has anyone brewed it before?"

"My mother is a potioneer," Raven said. "I used to watch her brew a lot of things. I know the process, but I've never participated."

"A potioneer?" Nott asked with a raised eyebrow. "I didn't think women usually…" He trailed off when Hermione gave him a scathing look.

Raven snorted in amusement and rolled her eyes. "America is light-years ahead of Great Britain…on pretty much every front. England has slid significantly backwards over the last few decades. Wizarding women can be pretty much whatever they want to be in America. Here, the Wizengamot has paralyzed any sort of forward movement."

"Centuries of progress, unraveled in a matter of years," Hermione muttered sourly. "This Wizengamot is a fucking travesty."

Nott, who was still unused to her inappropriate language, blinked rapidly. "My father has some influence in the Ministry. He's always told me that while witches aren't as powerful as wizards, he still doesn't agree that they should be so shut out from job fields, and even politics. There's only one woman on the Wizengamot right now, and it's because the only two living males in the Bones family are too young to take their aunt's place."

Suddenly the air in room became thin, crackling magic stealing the very oxygen from the atmosphere around them. Tom watched, somewhat breathlessly, as Granger's eyes blazed orange for a moment, watched as the hair in her ponytail cracked with little shards of lightning…watched as a ripple of red-orange light flushed underneath the skin of her hands and neck. It was over almost before it had begun, the sharpness of her magic, so tangible he'd almost been able to taste it on his tongue, winking out of existence like it had never been there in the first place.

Flynn and Nott were both staring at her. Hermione blushed, in anger or discomfiture or a combination of the two. "Next time your father says something so embarrassingly obtuse, please feel free to invite him to a duel with yours truly," she said, her voice thick with barely restrained anger. "Not sure if I would win, but I'd sure as hell give him a couple of nasty scars slow to heal. And then when people ask about them, he can tell them that a _powerless witch_ gave them to him."

Nott held up his hands in supplication, but his eyes flashed with an unidentifiable emotion. "All right, Granger. I'm not saying that that's how _I_ feel. Just repeating what I was told."

"Isn't it though?" she said accusingly, a cynical smile curving her lips. "Isn't that how everyone feels in this backwards society? Women aren't as strong as men, not fit to work anything but menial, low level jobs…they might be lucky to be a teacher. And muggleborns have it even worse. Mudbloods, everyone calls them – don't have a good grasp on their magic, don't belong in your special, privileged society." She sneered hatefully. "It's rubbish. Almost everyone I've met since I've been back in Britain is a bloody child about it. Even the adults. I feel like I've been dropped back in time by half a century; and that's saying a lot, because China isn't exactly the most progressive place, either." She shook her head, and her shoulders slumped. "We should get to work on this potion. I could talk for days about this nonsense."

She snapped her fingers again, and a tiny blue flame popped up underneath the cauldron, shaped like a perfect teardrop, its heat only rising upward. Tom stared at it. Clever.

He was still reeling from the flash of magic that she had unleashed. Even now, he watched her skin for signs of the lava that ran in her veins, watched her hair for the shards of lightning that had cracked among the lustrous curls. But everything had gone still.

His own magical aura was thrumming with the energy that she had released. It had been burning hot, blindingly bright…but there was a depth to it that spoke of dark things. Though Raven was working next to Hermione, engaging her in conversation about the Slug Club party that evening, he could tell that his curly-haired housemate had felt it and was equally unsettled. Nott did not let much emotion peek through, but his eyes flickered with discomfort.

"So will they all be this formal, or is it just this first party of the year?" Hermione was asking Flynn. "And how many people will be there, do you think? I've really no idea what to expect."

Flynn responded. "Sometimes they're more casual – the parties often have themes, and Slughorn will make appropriate attire known to us a couple of weeks in advance. The first and last parties of the year are always the largest," she continued. "Twenty to thirty students are invited, and they each get a plus one. So we'll say approximately fifty students. Then others are invited from outside the school, usually thirty or forty: important Ministry figures, people who have made incredible accomplishments in their given fields, recently graduated students who were members of the Club when they were here and are just starting out in the real world."

"Sometimes it's just as simple as having the right last name," Nott added, coming to face them across the table and pointing his wand to fill the cauldron up with water to the halfway line. "While the Blacks have a lot of political influence, many of them are invited simply because their surname is Black. It's as simple as that."

"And I assume the Malfoys will make an appearance as well?" she said, one eyebrow rising in what looked a lot like disdain.

Nott shrugged. "I heard Abraxas was out of the country recently – I'm not sure if he'll be back. But you can bet his father will be there. Father says he and Pollux Black have taken an interest in you and Mallery, and are anxious to meet you."

Hermione rolled her eyes and huffed. "How delightful. And I'm sure the first thing to come out of their mouths will be something pertaining to my tainted pedigree. I'm practically brimming with anticipation." Her voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Raven chuckled. Thoros looked a tad bit uncomfortable. Tom merely stared at Hermione, keeping all traces of emotion from his face.

He would be lying if he said he didn't care about blood status. He did think it made a difference. Muggles were unworthy of associating with wizards; and mudbloods were tainted by their heritage. They did not always fit in with the rest of wizarding society, and from what he had noticed they were rarely able to adapt well enough in the new environment to succeed and become skilled in the art of magic. And it was obvious that it did not come as naturally to them, and that they weren't as powerful. But, like Hermione, he had a general disdain for those who were so heavily entrenched in blood purity that they were blinded to all else. There were many powerful wizards who were half-bloods. And though Tom abhorred the thought of any witch or wizard stooping low enough to breed with a muggle, they often produced healthier offspring than the so-called "Sacred 28"; offspring that were just as gifted as pureblooded children.

Suddenly he remembered her words after breakfast on Saturday morning; when he'd dragged her into a shadowy alcove and then been forced to breathe in the infuriating scent that clung to her skin and hair. He remembered the deadly gleam in her eyes as he'd grabbed her wrist, remembered the way her hands had singed the skin of his forearms.

 _Come now, Tom; you're much too brilliant to truly hold on to the ideal that excessive, fanatical inbreeding alone intrinsically begets power._

He had always believed that the more magic in a bloodline, the more powerful a witch or wizard would be. He'd always assumed that his relation to Salazar Slytherin was what made him exceptional; that the pure, magical blood that ran through his veins was what gave him his power. But he'd never stopped to think about just how pathetic the rest of the Gaunt family had been: his mother, who was practically a squib with a knack for potions; his uncle, who was as stupid as he was ugly; his grandfather, who he had never met, but had gotten himself locked away in Azkaban for assaulting a Ministry worker, of all things, and then died young in the pathetic lean-to that he'd called a home.

 _If your mother had ended up fancying her brother instead of the local muggle lord with the pretty face, and they'd had a child together, you wouldn't be as you are now. You'd be little more than a squib, physically misshapen and magically unimpressive, and you know it._

Tom gritted his teeth and grabbed the fluxweed to begin chopping it into pieces. Was it true? Was she right? He listened with half an ear as they continued to talk about the party, mulling the subject of his lineage over in his head.

It was an interesting thing to think about. What was more pressing, however, was just _how_ she _knew_ all of these things. He had taken every precaution to keep people from figuring out who he was; he'd told his followers that his father had been an obscure wizard from France, and his mother was descended from the line of Salazar Slytherin. He'd opened the Chamber of Secrets and released the basilisk within just to prove it. He'd told them that he'd been adopted as a child, but any time they thought to ask him about his adoptive parents they would find themselves…effectively distracted. He was good at planting concepts in other peoples' minds. And so they figured that his real parents were both wizards, and his adoptive parents were both wizards, and they never speculated.

He thought, perhaps, that Edmond knew the truth. Sometimes the way he looked at Tom…well. Edmond was far more perceptive than people gave him credit for. And now that Tom was getting to know Avery a bit more, he wondered just how much the younger boy knew. But Thoros didn't suspect, nor Antonin, nor Ambrose nor Gavin. They followed him because he had insinuated himself into their world, and he fit in. He'd made sure of it. They followed him because he promised them power, and the realization of their dream – a world in which purebloods were in complete control.

Mostly, at this point, they followed him because they feared him. They followed him because they knew he could crush them if he wanted to. They followed him because they could feel his power when he tortured them, could feel his power when he dueled them, could feel his power as he slept and ate and read and put his socks on in the morning. They followed him, because if they didn't, he would destroy them for their abandonment.

 _If your mother had ended up fancying her brother instead of the local muggle lord with the pretty face…_

… _the local muggle lord with the pretty face…_

… _the pretty face…_

Wait.

How did she know what his father had looked like?

A new wave of anxiety and anger came crashing over him. It was _impossible_ for her to know. There was just _no way_ that she could know who his father was and that his face had been an exact replica of his son's – almost unnaturally perfect. His father had been dead long before Granger and Mallery had come crashing through space. And no one here in Hogwarts knew what his father had looked like; they didn't even know who his father _was_. Even if she knew Legilimency – which was doubtful, considering how rare of an art it was, and how difficult it was to master – there would have been nothing to pluck from anyone's mind. And if she'd tried to invade _his_ mind, he would have known it immediately. He was not as good as Occlumency as he was Legilimency, but he was still better at it than most, and if he was good enough to feel the masterfully subtle probing of Albus Dumbledore on the rare occasion that the old man _tried_ , then he was good enough to recognize the attempts of a mere girl – no matter how much supposed experience she might have.

He needed to speak to her. He needed to get her in a position where he could look into her mind, delve into her secrets – because she _had_ secrets. Her eyes were full of them; full of secrets and mysteries and knowledge, so much knowledge – a thousand years worth of wisdom, it seemed. Bitter experience seemed to leak out of every pore; cynicism and pain and a deep, dark anger dripped from her words.

He would probably have to use the _Imperius_. He was not yet comfortable entering the mind of an unconscious person, and he didn't want to be surprised by any Occlumency skills simply because he was foolish enough to underestimate her. If she caught him in the act and was somehow able to push him from her mind, then she would never trust him; she would distance herself from him, and he would lose his chance to collect her.

No. He would have to _Imperio_ her, and then wipe the experience from her memory, as well as any unsavory knowledge that she somehow had about him. And then they could continue on as if nothing had happened, and his secrets would be safe again.

He could also use the opportunity to affirm her desire for him in her mind, to make her practically fall into his bed –

But no. He considered that rape, and if there was one thing that his conscience just wouldn't stand for, it was rape. He was the product of rape, and any and all curiosity or potential respect for his mother had faded instantly when his uncle had confronted him with the disgusting truth of his conception. He would not stoop so low. Hermione would come to him of her own volition.

Besides…he'd always liked a challenge.

oooo

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 **I know it's a short and rather lame chapter. I'm sorry. I've been struggling with a bit of writer's block. Ugh.**

 **Next chapter will include DADA class, which might get a bit interesting, and the first Slug Club party. It'll be a much longer chapter, and towards the end things will start to really heat up. The first real conflict of the story will start in the next couple of chapters. It isn't hugely central to the plot, but it will set the stage. Get ready to see Hermione…** _ **upset.**_ **Very, very upset. She's going to get a bit violent and vindictive. And Tom will want to kill her more than ever, but he'll also want to own her more than ever, and the confliction in his mind will only get worse.**

 **A little snippet from the next chapter:**

 _"A shame," Draco drawled as he shook Avery's hand, his voice a perfect blend of forced politeness and I-don't-give-a-fuck. "I would have liked to know how he did it." Hermione hummed in agreement. Tom wanted to snigger at the looks on the three men's faces; equal parts intrigue, disbelief and disgust._

 **So, get ready for champagne, dancing, Tom and Draco looking very dashing in their dress robes, and a familiar knife that we all love to hate. (Doesn't anyone ever wonder what happened to Bellatrix's cursed knife? Yeah. Of course Hermione kept it.)**


	19. Chapter 19

**Someone asked me recently if I had an update schedule for this story. I don't have one set in stone, but I try to update once a week. Sometimes it will be two weeks, depending on how busy I am with work and how long the chapter is (I have a tendency to write monstrous chapters, sometimes). But I'll try to keep it consistent. Reviews help feed the muse, of course. ;)**

 **Thanks to all of those who follow, favorite and review. I know I say this a lot, but it really means so much to me that y'all have been so supportive – not to mention patient and helpful. I love hearing from all of you.**

 **Also, I've been getting a lot of comments along these lines: "Why don't Hermione and Fawkes just heal Draco with their tears? Duh."**

 **My response is: Why didn't Fawkes heal Dumbledore when he was dying? How come there aren't any potions that have phoenix tears in them that can heal almost any wound? How come Dumbledore didn't send Fawkes to heal Frank and Alice Longbottom, or Arthur Weasley after he was attacked by Nagini, or Bill Weasley when he was scarred by Greyback, or a million other times when he could've saved someone? I don't think it's that easy, guys. I don't think a phoenix can just cry at will and heal all wounds. Besides – you will find out later in the story how Draco's case is a little more complicated. And who says that Hermione will even have that particular power from Fawkes? She has little knowledge of what she can and can't do yet. Also, I don't want the plot of this story to be so predictable, and I don't want Hermione to be some God-like entity that can conquer everything. She's really cool, and a total badass, but I don't want her to become some totally predictable Mary Sue. So I'm not going to heal Draco just because it would be cool for her to be able to do so – if and when I choose to keep him alive, it will be in a different way. Phoenix tears are just too easy.**

 **So, on with the show! (Also, I lied about the champagne – I went for spiked punch instead.)**

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oooo

Baby, this is what you came for  
Lightning strikes every time she moves  
And everybody's watching her  
But she's looking at you

-"This is what you came for" by Calvin Harris feat. Rihanna

They haven't invented a spell that our Hermione can't do. –Rubeus Hagrid

The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything. –Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

oooo

Hermione found herself quite surprised when Professor Merrythought announced what they would be working on in class. It was surprising merely because Hogwarts curriculum in the 1940s had been decidedly lacking – light-years behind what Hermione had learned in the '90s.

"Today we'll be working on the patronus charm," the older woman said, her sharp grey eyes flicking around the classroom to observe her students. "It's something I'd like to continue working on throughout the school year – I want you to practice it on your own, and we'll revisit it again next month. It is very advanced magic. While some people can cast the charm successfully, most can only manage the shield version of the charm. Seeing corporeal patronuses is very rare. It isn't something that most wizards and witches focus on learning, simply because dementors don't pose a threat to us since they work for Azkaban prison."

Hermione's hand went up into the air. Merrythought raised an eyebrow, but motioned for her to speak.

She cleared her throat. "It might be good to keep in mind that while dementors sometimes do work for prisons, there are many places around the world where they wander free and have no master. They breed prolifically. If anyone plans on traveling outside of the British Isles, especially to the southern hemisphere, it's good to be prepared."

Merrythought's lips quirked up at the corners. "Very good point, Miss Granger. Five points to Gryffindor." The professor looked out once again, her eyes scanning the class. "She is quite right. Dementors here in the United Kingdom have made a deal with Azkaban prison – there are two other prisons on the continent that also employ them, Zamok, in Russia, and Zatvor Kamuk, in Bulgaria. But in the rest of the world, they roam free." She turned back to look at Hermione. "Have you encountered many of the creatures in your travels, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded, frowning. "Yes."

"And would it be safe to assume that you can perform a patronus charm?"

Just then the door to the classroom opened, and everybody turned. Draco hobbled into the room, leaning heavily on his cane. He gave the professor a brilliant smile. "I'm sorry to disrupt, Professor," he said. "Would you mind if I sat in for today's class?"

Merrythought looked at him sternly, but then her lips twitched. "I thought you might be getting bored, Mister Mallery," she speculated with a wry smile. "Please, take a seat. We were discussing patronus charms. I was just asking Miss Granger if she knows how to cast one."

Draco sat next to Pepper Peabody on the other side of the classroom, lounging comfortably in his chair and sticking his left leg out into the aisle. He tapped his cane on the ground. "I doubt there is a spell on the planet that Hermione can't do, by now." Hermione glared at him and felt her cheeks burn. "Go on then, Granger. Show them how it's done."

Hermione turned in her seat to face him, and tapped her wand on the edge of the table she shared with Bertha and Lyall. Tom Riddle sat at the table behind hers, and she could see him out of the corner of her eye, could feel his hot stare on the side of her face.

She gave Draco a tight smile. "You first, Mallery," she goaded.

With a roll of his grey eyes, Malfoy pulled his wand out of his pocket and flourished it. _"Expecto Patronum."_

Everyone in the room gasped as a white dragon, about ten feet long from nose to tail, soared overhead. It landed in the middle of the aisle, and silver smoke puffed from its nostrils. It looked over at Hermione, and she smiled at it fondly. Within seconds, it vanished.

"That was bloody brilliant!" Colt Diggory said, looking at Draco with respect. The rest of the students were murmuring amongst themselves.

Professor Merrythought cleared her throat. "Language, Mister Diggory." She turned to Draco. "Very well done, Mallery. I would award you points if I could, but you haven't been sorted. I'm impressed with the fact that you managed a corporeal patronus. How long have you been able to perform one?"

Draco looked to the ceiling. "Two years ago I learned the shield charm," he lied. "It was a year later that I produced my first corporeal. Granger learned, what, three years ago? Four?" He looked at Hermione, his eyes full of laughter – she had first managed a patronus when she was sixteen. Seven years ago. For Draco, it had been four years. But no one knew their true ages, and Hermione doubted that people would believe that she had first cast a patronus seven years ago – when she was supposedly eleven. "Granger, didn't I hear from someone that your first ever patronus was corporeal?"

"That's rubbish," Hermione said through gritted teeth. She felt her cheeks heat even more. She sniffed. "I produced a non-corporeal the first time I tried it. It took almost two hours of constant practice to get my otter to appear."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He huffed in amusement. "How disappointing," he muttered sarcastically. She narrowed her eyes at his cheek.

"How extraordinary!" Merrythought said, looking genuinely excited. "Miss Granger, would you mind producing your otter for us to see?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "Well, it's not an otter anymore. It changed forms a couple of years ago."

"Changed forms?" Lyall said curiously from beside her. "How is that possible?"

"It only happens if there is a fundamental change in a person's soul," Hermione answered quietly. She looked down at the table, traced a scratch in the wood with her finger. "Sometimes it's as simple as falling in love – finding your soul mate, some might say. Or it might happen after you kill someone for the first time, or use Dark magic. Or, say you were tortured by an enemy for so long that your brain started to…unhinge, so to speak." She coughed as her throat started to constrict. "Most often it happens after some sort of significant loss. Something that changes the way you see the world."

"So which one are you?" Druella Rosier asked, her dark eyes sharp and cruel and so much like her maniacal daughter's that, for a moment, Hermione was transported to a different time and place.

She flinched, and blinked rapidly to dispel the unwelcome memories from her mind, banishing them back to the dark corner from which they came. She smiled coolly at the blonde. "I'd rather not talk about it," she answered. She saw Draco's eyes drop to the stone floor, and felt the weight of unwelcome sadness settle on her shoulders. "One of the less pleasant ones. It's private."

She saw Druella's eyes flash with impatience, so Hermione, in an effort to discourage more questions, raised her wand and whispered the incantation that had saved her life more times than she could count.

The memory she used was the only one left that was not tainted by the dark stain of death. It was the memory of seeing Harry roll out of Hagrid's arms, alive against all odds, and the hope that had bloomed in her chest, the power she'd felt as she realized that they could win.

They hadn't won, of course. But, to be fair, they hadn't lost, either.

Concentrating on the memory and the feelings of love and hope and renewed strength, she watched in satisfaction as her patronus burst out of her wand in a ferocious stream, taking the shape of a lioness. It roared deafeningly, and Hermione grinned over at Draco. He winked at her, looking pleased.

"Very nicely done, Miss Granger!" Professor Merrythought said. She, in turn, cast her own patronus, and Hermione huffed out a laugh as a marsh harrier swept down to tease her lioness, which batted at the raptor playfully with its paw.

The bird of prey flew around the classroom, delighting all of the students when it screeched. Hermione allowed herself a small smile as she took in the excitement on her peers' faces.

Soon the professor's patronus vanished, and Hermione let her own fade away as well, immediately missing the warmth and fierceness of it.

"It is very rare indeed to have three wizards in one room that can cast corporeal patronuses," Merrythought said, looking extraordinarily pleased. "Especially when two of them are still in school." She turned her sharp grey gaze on Draco, and then back over to Hermione. "What advice would you give your fellow students as they attempt to cast their own patronuses?"

Draco shrugged. "It's more about concentration than anything," he said matter-of-factly. "And the memory has to be a good one. Something solid. Not just a happy memory – like riding a broom for the first time, or last Christmas when you got a new pair of dragonhide boots from your parents." He smiled. "Look deeper. That feeling you got when the healer announced that your brother would survive his injuries, or giving birth to a child – not that any of you have done that yet, of course – or something that pertains to your relationships with the people you love."

Hermione tapped her fingers against her desk. "Sometimes," she said, thankful for how strong her voice was despite the emotions that were knocking against the walls of her brain, "it's not as easy for some of us." She cleared her throat when everyone looked at her. "Some of you didn't have good upbringings, filled with love and laughter." Her eyes flicked sideways to where Tom sat. "Or, perhaps you did – but then it all fell apart. When that happens – when your memories have been tainted by sadness, or you just don't have any good memories to start with – you have to get creative."

Professor Merrythought was looking at her curiously, and Hermione thought her eyes looked pleased. "Can you elaborate on that, Hermione?"

"Er, I can try," she said with a shaky smile. "Sometimes it's not just about happiness and joy. Other things work, too. Perhaps a dream you had, where you met the parents that died when you were a baby. Or that feeling you got when you were able to cast a difficult spell for the first time." She chuckled. "I had a friend who used the memory of casting his first patronus to produce his future patronuses," she said, thinking of Neville. She shrugged. "It worked for him. The memory I use is one of hope. It's powerful. I'd thought a friend of mine was dead, and then I realized he was alive, against seemingly insurmountable odds. We were very close." She looked across at Draco, whose eyes were fixed on her. "Sometimes people with checkered pasts cast the most impressive patronuses," she continued. "Because they don't have much happiness in their lives, it makes the happy memories they _do_ have all the more powerful. That sort of perspective gives good memories more energy."

"That's an interesting theory," Merrythought said. "I've not thought of it like that before."

"Is there any truth to the supposition that Dark wizards can't cast patronuses?"

The question came from Tom. His voice was soft, and his eyes were full of…something. Sometimes he was so hard to read.

Hermione shook her head, holding his dark gaze even as she felt the incredible urge to look away. "Even Dark wizards have good memories," she said. "Happiness is relative, of course. I've found that most of them can't cast patronuses because they simply never bothered to learn. That sort of Light magic isn't something they are generally interested in."

"However, there were a few that we encountered along the way that learned how to cast corporeal patronuses to send messages," Malfoy added, locking eyes with Hermione before looking away. "Although one of them had an unhealthy fear of lethifolds," he said with a chuckle. Hermione grinned evilly, thinking of Mulciber Jr. and his bobcat patronus. "But the others realized the value of not having to send an owl every time they needed to get in touch with someone. Besides, owls can be intercepted. A patronus will not reveal information to anyone but the intended recipient, and they can't be stopped by anything – spells, wards, and physical barriers have no effect on them."

Hermione zoned out, thinking of the time when she saw Bellatrix's patronus during her captivity. It had been a menacing Hungarian Horntail, as loud and obnoxious as the woman who cast it. Then there had been the sleek, muscular jaguar of Thorfinn Rowle, and Rabastan Lestrange's intimidating and expressionless komodo dragon. Other than those four – Mulciber, Bellatrix, Rowle and the younger Lestrange brother – she hadn't known of any others with the ability.

Riddle seemed appeased by the answer, although there was a certain discomfort in his eyes that spoke of an uncommon lack of surety.

Hermione realized, suddenly, that he was afraid of failing. He'd never failed at any magic he'd put his mind to learning – but patronuses were different. It wasn't just about being magically gifted. It was personal. A person's patronus was a pure manifestation of their magic, and the shape it took was very revealing of what was in their soul. It was a truly accurate representation of a witch or wizard's most basic personality. The animalistic side, so to speak. It was the fundamental nature of a person, underneath all of the outer layers.

She wondered what form Tom Riddle's would take, if he were able to produce one. A basilisk, probably. Some sort of serpent. Or perhaps some prehistoric reptile, like a crocodile.

She shook herself out of her thoughts as Merrythought began to speak. "Thank you, Mister Mallery, and you, Miss Granger, for giving us access to your insight on the charm. It's one of the trickiest spells many of you are likely to ever attempt. If you turn to page three hundred of your book, you'll find an entire chapter on the patronus charm, as well as instructions on how to begin practicing…"

* * *

oooo

Hermione stared at herself in the mirror, absently twirling a lock of hair around her finger. Iris slapped her hand away and glared.

"Cut it out," the blonde snapped. "I'm trying to tame your hair into something _human,_ and your incessant fiddling isn't helping."

Hermione grinned. "I'm telling you, Iris, that no matter how much Sleekeazy's you dump into it, it will always be wild. Just leave it down. It'll be fine."

Iris gave her a stubborn stare. "No."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Fine. What are you going to do with it, then?"

"I'm going for the messy French twist look," Iris said excitedly. "Sometimes the French twist is too sleek and severe, but with how textured your hair is, it'll take the edge off. It'll be nice and soft, but elegant."

There was a small chuckle from the corner. Hermione looked over with a scowl. Raven Flynn sat on Hermione's bed, reading a Witch Weekly and scratching a purring Cissa on the head. Her black dress was lying next to her, and she had done precisely nothing to get ready for the party, which started in an hour. Iris was already completely ready, in a floaty blue dress that made her eyes and skin look fabulous. It really should be a sin for someone to be so beautiful.

Suddenly Hermione got the image of what the offspring of Tom Riddle and Iris Fawley would look like. The two most attractive people she'd ever seen, having children together…

And then the realization that she was thinking about _Lord Voldemort_ having _children_ sunk in, and she almost laughed out loud. She tried to picture Tom holding a baby and changing nappies, and it was so amusing she had to stifle giggles.

Iris put a hand on her hip and looked over at Raven. "Something you want to say, Flynn?" she said icily.

Raven grinned, and surprisingly enough her eyes were kind. "It's interesting watching you work your magic. I mean, it's amazing how little makeup you use, and yet you've managed to make yourself and Hermione absolutely stunning."

Iris deflated, looking a bit lost on how to respond. "I… Thank you. My mother was a Burke, you know, and her mother was a Black, so I grew up around women who were adamant that I always look my best. They taught me everything about…well, about everything." She shrugged and tugged on a piece of Hermione's hair. A pleasant pink blush stained her cheeks at Raven's praise. She looked over at the dark haired Slytherin. "Would you like me to do your hair?"

Hermione did a stupid happy dance inside her head. Iris, despite being a social butterfly, had been less receptive to the new relationships that were forming amongst houses. Hermione thought it had to do more with control than anything else; Iris didn't know where she stood in this new social order that was forming. So the fact that the blonde had even offered something like that to Raven was a sign that she was softening up.

Flynn smiled. "Sure. It's almost as difficult as Hermione's though, so it might be a bit of a struggle."

Iris waved her away. "Nonsense. I can manage. Why don't you go ahead and do your makeup? As soon as I get done with Hermione you can take the hot seat." She patted the chair in front of her, where Hermione was currently sitting in her undergarments.

"I'll need to get into my dress first, too," Raven said. "I'll have to pull it over my head. And there are some tricky laces at the back…" She looked over to the window seat, where Zuri sat reading her Transfiguration book. "Zu-ri…" she said in a singsong voice.

The Indian girl looked up from her textbook and gave Raven a scathing look. She rolled her eyes and sighed, getting to her feet. "Fine. What do I need to do?"

Raven grinned, and they set to work messing about with her complicated dress. Hermione stared back into the mirror, content to sit and ruminate about the day as Iris continued to twist her hair into a complex style.

Advanced DADA had been interesting for Hermione. It had actually been rather fun. Instead of the student, she had been something of a teacher. As the class had spread out to practice, the students had bombarded Draco and her with questions. In fact, she was rather sure that they got more questions than Professor Merrythought.

Tom had stared at her periodically throughout class, much as he had in Potions that morning and History of Magic later that afternoon. While other people had been diligently practicing their patronus charms, he'd sat and read his DADA textbook. He'd spent the entire class reading. It was obvious that he was apprehensive to even try.

The only two students that had been successful were Pepper and Thoros, who both produced passable shield charms – though they hadn't lasted more than a couple of seconds. The rest of them had just managed to get a few silvery wisps to come out of their wands. A couple of unfortunate individuals hadn't been successful at all – Autumn Rookwood had glared at Hermione hatefully every time she'd failed, and the Rosier cousins had been equally stumped.

"There."

Hermione broke out of her reverie as Iris waved her wand over Hermione's head. She felt her hair settle, felt it tighten so that it was secure.

Hermione turned her head this way and that. "It's lovely, Iris," she said, smiling gratefully at the blonde. "A French twist, but it's so loose and relaxed it almost looks like a chignon. The perfect blend of two styles. You have a special gift." She smiled at Iris, who blushed.

As she moved to get up out of her chair, the door opened. Sabrina and Kat came in, giggling about something.

"Oh, Hermione, Draco is downstairs in the common room and he said something about not forgetting your jewelry?" Sabrina said, looking quizzical. "He mentioned a hairpin of his mother's, and said that you should look through her old jewelry collection."

"A hairpin… _oh._ I might know what he's talking about…" Hermione went to her trunk and opened her purple bag. She began to step down into it when Raven spoke.

"Can't you just _Accio_ it?" she asked, frowning.

Hermione shook her head. "With some things, yes, but all of the jewelry will be in Mallery's vault, which is locked up tight. That's why I had to go down to get the cauldron today in Potions."

She hopped down the stairs and turned on the light at the bottom. She was glad she'd decided to enlarge her bag even further. It had gotten to the point where it was just too crowded, and it was too difficult to find things. Sunday night she and Draco had done some much-needed reorganizing.

She quickly accessed Malfoy's vault and slipped inside. She lifted her wand. _"Accio_ hairpin."

Immediately a gold plated box flew into her hand. She looked at it, shrugged, and lifted her wand again. _"Accio_ Narcissa's jewelry collection."

A solid wooden chest, two feet tall and two feet wide, flew towards her, and she barely caught it before it hit her in the face. She huffed, but stacked the two boxes together and levitated them back up the stairs.

"Well then, let's see what you've got to choose from," Sabrina said anxiously. Hermione humored her and opened the small gold box. All of the girls in the room flocked to her and they all let out a collective gasp.

Inside sat a decorative hair comb. It was gold, and inlaid with tiny pearls and black diamonds. It was delicately wrought, and Iris lifted it carefully from its case, turning it over in her hands.

"Goblin made," she said. "My mother has one similar to it; but this is one of the nicest pieces of jewelry I've ever seen."

"Narcissa Mallery always demanded the best," Hermione murmured with a fond smile.

"Is that who you named your snobby cat after?" asked Kat with a grin, reaching over to rub the little kitten between the ears.

Hermione giggled. "Seemed appropriate. She was the most elegant woman I've ever met, and she knew it." She sighed. "Let's see what else I can borrow this evening. For some reason it feels like stealing. I know she came to love me, eventually, but she was a proud creature and I can almost hear her offended sniff at the thought of me touching her things."

She waved her wand and the top of the wooden box flew open.

"Merlin," Sabrina breathed. "Look at it all."

It was a layered box. They pulled each tier out one by one, laying them side by side on Hermione's bed. Iris immediately went for a delicate gold necklace with a simple ruby pendant, while Sabrina snatched a diamond bracelet from one of the drawers and held it up to the light.

"Oo, this necklace would go _perfect_ with your dress, Hermione," Iris cooed.

"Yes, but if she's going to be wearing pearls and black diamonds in her hair, we should stick to that theme," Raven said authoritatively.

Iris reluctantly agreed, quickly sliding the beautiful comb into Hermione's hair and casting another spell so that it remained in place for the night. "There," she said with a smile. "That's lovely. Now," she said, clapping her hands. "The rest of you help Hermione with her dress and jewelry while I figure out what to do with this crazy pile of curls on Flynn's head."

Raven rolled her eyes and muttered something, but sat down obediently in the chair in front of the full-length mirror, already wearing her corseted black gown and the classic cat-eye and red lip look she tended to sport on a daily basis.

Hermione looked up at Sabrina as the girl unzipped her dress and helped her step into it. Hermione took her bra off and laid it on her bed; she couldn't wear one with the backless gown. "Thanks Sabrina. I'm sorry that I was so selfish Monday morning and took away your chance to go to the party," she said softly. "I know Draco would have liked to have you there."

Sabrina smiled, and a pale pink blush stained her cheeks. "It's fine, Hermione. Really. Magnus asked me to go with him, actually, but I turned him down." She wrinkled her nose. "Sometimes I feel too tired to deal with all of this hoity-toity social stuff anyways. Besides," she said, rolling her eyes as she zipped up Hermione's gown, "I agreed to take Temple's prefect duty tonight so she could attend."

"You are such a Gryffindor, Snowborn," Raven said teasingly, wincing as Iris pulled at her hair. "You've got to do things for yourself sometimes, you know? Otherwise your whole life will just be one person after the other taking advantage of you. Balance that silly excess of nobility and kindness with some reason and a little dose of self-interest."

Sabrina huffed out a laugh. Zuri held out a pair of shoes, and Hermione grimaced before she slid them on her stocking-clad feet. They were simple T-strap pumps, as uncomfortable as they were clunky. Feeling a moment of inspiration, she cast a couple of cushioning charms on the blocky shoes and then pulled a Pansy and altered them ever so slightly so that the heels were just a bit thinner and the patent leather a bit shinier. After a moment's hesitation she made the toe a little pointier and lowered the sides to reveal more of her foot.

Call her vain, but every minute she spent entrenched in 1940s style was torture, and she was not above breaking a couple of rules to make herself feel better and look better. She nearly berated herself for her foolishness, but she thought of Ginny, and realized that being proud of one's appearance didn't have to be foolish. If she were being honest, the heels would have been cute with a sweet, flirty knee-length dress. Very vintage. But the gown she was wearing, while simple, was sleek and elegant, and called for sleek and elegant shoes. When she was done she smiled and wiggled her toes.

"Nice," Zuri said, her eyebrows rising. "Here, you should wear this bracelet," she added, holding up a string of small pearls. She fastened it around Hermione's wrist. "I think we should skip the necklace tonight."

Hermione nodded. The boat neckline of the dress was high enough that the gold chain Hermione always wore wasn't visible, her locket and two gold wedding bands nestled between her breasts. Just as well. She'd put a notice-me-not charm on it, so that the girls in the dorm wouldn't think to ask about it. She didn't want those sorts of questions.

She borrowed a pair of Narcissa's earrings, simple black diamonds set into delicate dangling gold. She put the jewelry box back inside her purple bag on the stairs, closed it and warded it. When she was finished, she dabbed some perfume behind her ears, secured her wand in its position tucked into the top of her stocking, thanked the girls for their help, and left the dorm, stepping carefully down the stairs in the heels that were still so painfully awkward.

Hermione wasn't given to really analyzing her looks, and so she descended the stairs unaware that those who'd known her before would have found it hard to reconcile the elegant young woman – clad in a striking dress, thick dark hair pinned back with goblin-wrought gold, dark eyes lined precisely with kohl and bright with anxiety – with the somewhat pretty but still rather plain bookworm she'd been as a child, or even the fierce warrior in her combat boots. The way she carried herself had changed: poised, upright. Powerful. Even aristocratic. It was out of necessity; she was playing a part, and she had automatically begun to mold herself into the person she was being forced to portray. The girl that had once sneered at make-up and jewelry had faded into the background for the evening. She had to stand out just enough, but she also had to _belong_ to a certain extent as well _._ More than that, she had to get people to _believe_ it, believe her back-story and not have a doubt in their minds about where she'd come from. It was essential.

When she arrived in the common room she immediately floated over to the nearest armchair and laid her hand on Draco's shoulder. He turned his head to look at her.

"Well, don't you look fetching," he said teasingly, taking her hand and guiding her around to sit on the arm of the chair. She crossed her legs, and the modest slit in her dress parted around her calves; her eyes were drawn to the hideous scars on her right leg. Her sheer nude stocking did absolutely nothing to cover them up. "That comb looks better in your hair than it ever did in my mother's."

Hermione snorted indelicately. "Draco, _nothing_ looks better on _anyone_ than it would on your mother."

Her blond companion shrugged. "You have something of a point. Still. You look beautiful."

"Thank you," she said, beaming. "I think I clean up all right."

"Better than all right." Hermione looked up towards the couch and smiled at Ignatius, whose ears were endearingly red. "Of course everybody knows that you're pretty, Hermione, but you look really nice tonight."

"Thank you, Ignatius," she said, gracing him with a gentle smile. "That's kind of you."

She looked around the room. Colt lounged in the opposite armchair, looking dashing in his dress robes, staring at her with plain avarice in his eyes. Magnus stood leaning up against the fireplace mantle in his tuxedo, his outer robes draped over his arm, drinking something that looked suspiciously like firewhisky. The long-silenced prefect in her wanted desperately to scowl disapprovingly and write him up. The tired, jaded warrior and borderline alcoholic in her won out, though, and she waved to get his attention. "Hey Magnus," she said. "Any chance of anybody else partaking in the pre-party refreshments?"

He raised his eyebrows and smirked. Wordlessly, he fished a flask out of his robe pocket, waved his wand to conjure a glass, and poured her a finger of whiskey. "You do look nice tonight, Granger," he said with a smile. "Gryffindor colors suit you."

She bowed her head in thanks and took the glass that he offered. Swirling the amber liquid around in her glass, she brought it to her nose, inhaled, and then took a tentative sip. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. She handed it silently to Malfoy, who drank after her.

He looked skeptically at Magnus. "Muggle?" he asked curiously.

Magnus grinned. "They make a mean scotch."

"Glenlivet?" Hermione asked uncertainly.

"Glenfiddich. Sixteen year." Magnus corrected. He raised his glass to her. "But good guess."

Colt rolled his eyes. "Ogden's is better."

"In some ways," Magnus agreed. "But I'm about to go to a party with a bunch of Ministry officials and Hogwarts staff. I'm of legal age, but drinking hard liquor on school grounds is still unpermitted. Firewhisky stinks, and no spell can make it go away. Muggle liquor isn't so bad, and you can mask it with magic."

Hermione laughed and took another sip of her scotch. "You seem to have the system beat, Mister Macdonald," she said amusedly.

Colt snorted. "Just wait until we get to the party," he said, smiling at Hermione. She saw his eyes flicker down to her scars, and she resisted the urge to recoil. "Lestrange always brings a bottle of vodka – or some sort of clear liquor – and pours half of it in the punch."

She grinned. "He's a bit wicked, isn't he?" she said, thinking of Edmond's quick, clever eyes and the mischievous smirk she'd seen flit across his face.

"He's got a good sense of humor," Ignatius said. He shrugged. "For a Slytherin. He's not the worst of the lot, that's for sure."

"So," Draco broke in, changing the subject. "As newcomers, is there anything we should know going into this little get-together?" He shifted his hand to rest it against her lower back, his thumb tracing one of the slashes that the manticore had given her. She shivered with the caress.

It felt strangely… _possessive._

 _I'd like to think that there is an alternate universe out there where I can be with you; absent of dark lords and dead spouses and years of animosity._

"It's teeming with Slytherins," Colt said with a grunt. "Both current ones and graduated ones. A third of the attendees are Blacks."

"The Daily Prophet will be there, so expect your picture to be in the paper again," Magnus said, smirking into his glass. "If Sophia Bones attends, she'll want to speak to you."

Hermione winced and downed the rest of her drink. "Fantastic." Draco snorted.

Just then the door to the girls' dorm opened, and Iris stepped out, followed closely by Raven. The Slytherin's dark curls had been pulled into a low side ponytail, held in place by a silver clip. They both looked great.

Immediately Colt and Ignatius stood. "Shall we all walk together, then?" said Colt.

"Yes, let's," Iris gushed, immediately sliding her hand into the crook of Colt's arm.

Magnus shook his head. "I'll hang back to wait for Misty. She should be out shortly."

Hermione barely suppressed a grimace. Ugh. Misty McGill…she was bloody awful. A total nightmare. She was kind of surprised to hear that he'd asked her; he could do much better. "All right, well, we'll see you down there, Macdonald," she said with a smile.

He raised his glass in acknowledgement, and the rest of the group wasted no time in exiting the common room and heading down to the dungeons.

"You seem especially sprightly this evening, Mallery," Raven commented as they reached the stairs. "Feeling better?"

"I took an extra potion tonight," he replied with a wince. "Madam Soranus would be horrified if she found out. But it helps with the pain, and hopefully I'll get a couple of dances in before I crash."

"Draco is a stupendous dancer," Hermione said to their four companions. "Really talented. Far more graceful than I."

"You're not rubbish, Granger," Draco said jokingly. He winked at her. "You keep up pretty well."

"Save me a dance, Granger?" Colt asked with a grin.

Hermione swallowed, but smiled. "Of course."

Honestly, did the man never give up? He had fucking _Iris Fawley_ on his arm, and he was asking Hermione to dance. It just didn't add up.

Suddenly Draco's words from Monday night slithered through her brain. _You'll have to get used to their morbid curiosity, and the 'oh my God, can I touch them's, and the comments over how exciting it all must have been. You just have to smile and nod. You can make scathing comments all you want, but it won't change things._

She was fresh blood. And on top of being new to the school, she was also _different_ from most of the other girls. To boys like Colt and Magnus, that was intriguing; they were restless with youth and the high that came with being attractive, eligible bachelors. It was a temporary interest.

Soon enough they would figure out that she wasn't at all what they wanted. It would become obvious to them that she was damaged, explosive; they did not want a woman who cried out her dead husband's name in her sleep, did not want a woman who brushed aside societal norms like old cobwebs. They did not want to date a girl who could beat them in a duel with her eyes closed. They did not want to marry a woman whose soul was stained with Dark magic; whose body still sometimes had random tremors from weeks of being tortured in captivity. They didn't want to be with a girl that had learned to strike enemies down in cold blood and feel no remorse about it; a girl who could cast all three Unforgivables as easily as drawing a breath.

No. They didn't want her. They wanted the cheap thrill of courting the new, mysterious girl from the East. She was exotic. But it would fade away sooner rather than later, and then she would be left with only Tom.

Suddenly her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She would have to see him tonight, perhaps dance with him, allow him to ogle the scars on her back and the fair golden tone of her bare skin. She would have to field his questions, and attempt to patch the giant hole she had made in the fabric of their "friendship" with her impulsive rant on Monday. She also had to be extra vigilant, because although she got the feeling he really wasn't out to kill her, she knew he wanted to make her hurt. So she was entrenched in anxiety, just waiting for the moment that he would grab her in the halls and sweep her off to his dorm and torture the living daylights out of her. She hadn't been put under the _Cruciatus_ since…since she'd been imprisoned in Malfoy Manor all those years ago. She didn't know how her body and mind would take it. The prospect frightened her.

She took some comfort in the fact that, while Tom Riddle was one of the most powerful wizards on Earth, he couldn't hurt her as badly as she'd been hurt before. He didn't hate her as Bellatrix Lestrange had. Even his future self, when he'd deigned to participate in her torture and cast a _Crucio_ or two, it hadn't been as bad as the mad woman who had worshiped him – who had had a very intimate sort of hatred for Hermione. It hadn't been as personal for him. He had been busy, his mind full of all things concerning Harry Potter and world domination. Voldemort hadn't cared about her – he'd just left his most capable followers to try to break her, and had been thrilled to have her in a position where she could do no more damage to his operation. But he hadn't truly taken notice of her. It was only later in the war, when she'd started fighting _really_ dirty – when she'd started to beat his Death Eaters in duels, eviscerating them and finding even more clever ways for them to die – that he'd begun to target her secondary to Harry. She had become Undesirable No. 2. She'd often had to avoid him during the battles that he had actually participated in, because he'd started to seek her out. It hadn't been often often – he'd only had one horcrux left: Nagini – and hadn't been willing to risk too much. He'd mostly let others do the dirty work.

Hermione suddenly shivered, and she wished she'd thought to get a wrap of some kind to go with her dress. As soon as she thought it, she felt Fawkes stir to life within her, and he flushed her body with his warmth.

Draco, who had her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, felt the magic rush under her skin. He looked over at her and frowned, tuning out of the discussion he'd been listening to. He slowed down to put some distance between them and their companions. "You all right?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "I got cold, and then Fawkes felt fit to remind me that I have my own personal furnace should I ever need it," she said lowly. "Bloody bird."

"Just remember that it's more of a gift than a curse, Hermione," he chastised gently. "He provides you with an extra layer of protection; although the extent of that protection is still unknown. When do you meet with Dumbledore next?" he asked.

"Tomorrow morning," she said. "We'll be discussing fire."

"You've always been good with fire," Draco said with a determined nod. "This has probably just enhanced the ability. Could be really useful. Just be careful until you know how to control it."

"I will," she said, stepping off of the last stair of the central tower and onto the ground floor. "You should join us," she said. "We'll be in the Room at six o'clock. I've already told Conan that I won't be able to run."

Draco nodded his head in agreement. "All right."

When they reached the dungeons, Hermione took a deep breath.

"Ready?" Draco asked as their little group reached the hallway where Slughorn had enlarged his office and classroom and quarters to accommodate almost a hundred guests.

Hermione inhaled shakily as Ignatius put his hand on the door and began to push it open. She corrected her posture, straightening her back and holding her chin up high, and mustered the confidence that had fueled her success for most of her life. She was proud of who she was. She was proud of her intelligence, proud of her magical ability, proud of her power – even proud of the way she looked, especially on a night like tonight. She had come to terms with her flaws a long time ago, and she was still proud of the woman that she'd become. She just needed to channel it.

On her exhale, she felt her nerves settle a little bit. She looked sideways at Draco and nodded. "Ready," she confirmed.

The door opened fully, and their group started to enter. Music and light assaulted her senses. She was the last one to pass the threshold; head held high, she stepped into the light.

* * *

oooo

Tom swirled his punch around in his glass, looking down into the pink eddy that had formed in the middle of his crystal goblet. Edmond had already spiked it – only minutes after they'd arrived – and Tom could feel the alcohol burn low in his stomach. It was subtle. Surely a couple of the savvier, more experienced guests could detect it, but most of them were blissfully unaware. Personally, although he never let himself get drunk, he was looking forward to the buzz. It might help take the edge off of what was sure to be a spectacularly dull night.

"Careful, Riddle," a voice said from beside him. Avery sidled up to him and leaned against a column. "Your boredom is starting to show."

Tom grimaced. "I've spent the last twenty minutes being cornered by people and being assaulted with the whole 'how do you do' and 'do you know so and so' spiel. It isn't what I would like to be doing on a Thursday evening."

"You play the part well, though," the sixth-year said quietly. He was scanning the room dispassionately with his typically empty blue eyes. "You're good at faking it."

"As much as I hate it, it _is_ important," he replied softly, glancing at the door and not admitting to himself that he was looking for _her._ Absolutely not. "If we're going to succeed in our upheaval of the wizarding world, we need the connections. This is a good way to get them, especially since we don't have the freedom of leaving school at the moment."

Conan made a noise in his throat that could have been agreement. Draining the rest of his drink, Tom stepped away from his follower and went to get more of the beverage. As he did so, Pollux Black came up next to him and grabbed his own glass. Tom handed him the ladle when he was finished with it.

"Mister Black – how are you?" he said cordially, keeping his tone cool and professional. Their eyes met, and black clashed with grey.

Black bowed his head in acknowledgement. He was looking dapper as he always did, in black robes that no doubt cost more money than Tom had ever seen in a lifetime. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and his goatee was impeccably trimmed. "I'm well, Mister Riddle. And yourself?"

"Restless," Tom said with a smile, sipping at his drink. "Anxious to sit my N.E.W.T.s and just be done with it."

Black smiled tightly. "From what I've heard, the job offers are racking up. You've done well for yourself here. It has not gone unnoticed."

Tom bowed his head in gratitude. "Thank you, sir. I'm honored."

Pollux hummed. "And my sons – how are they faring so far this year?"

"Alphard is doing well enough in his classes," Tom said honestly, "but he's more concerned with quidditch than anything else. He also has a very active social life." Pollux made a small sound in the back of his throat, and his mouth twitched in disapproval. "Cygnus has better grades, on the whole, but struggles in Transfiguration."

Black grimaced. "Dumbledore is hard on Slytherins."

"No one ever says it out loud," Tom said with a bitter twist of his lips, "but yes. He's very partial to members of his own house. Gryffindors and Slytherins have always been at odds, however, so it is somewhat expected."

"I hear that in the past couple of weeks there has been quite a bit of so-called 'inter-house unity,'" Black said lowly. There was a heavy dose of disdain in his words; it was well concealed, but Tom could hear it plain as day. "Is it true?"

Tom cocked his head. "Word sure does travel fast around here," he said with a smirk. "It is true. To an extent. It hasn't quite caught on yet. There are a handful of students that have been spending quite a bit of time together at meals and in their free time. Mostly Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, but a couple of Hufflepuffs as well and even one of our own. Raven Flynn and Hermione Granger have become particularly close. Nott and I have partnered with the two of them for a Potions project this semester."

"And how do you feel about this…intermingling of houses?" Black asked, pinning him with a searching stare.

Tom answered carefully, keeping his voice nonchalant. "I'm not quite sure yet. It's a bit…odd. I fear it might disrupt the natural order of things, but so far it seems relatively harmless. I need more time to observe before I cast judgment on the matter."

The Wizengamot member nodded his head. "A reasonable answer. And is it true that you have taken an interest in this… _Hermione Granger?"_

Once again, the contempt in his voice bled into his words. For some reason, it annoyed Tom. He was tired of people assuming they were superior simply because they'd been lucky enough to be born into the right family. Black knew nothing about Granger – only what he'd heard through word of mouth and one sensational newspaper article. He hadn't looked into her garnet-tinged mahogany eyes and seen the occasional swirl of strange colors there, or the flash of orange that sometimes engulfed her irises and pupils. He had not felt the heat of her flesh, or seen the glow of lava running beneath her skin. He'd not felt the suffocating presence of her magic, or seen the smile that was purely predatory. He did not know just how uncomfortable she would make him.

Tom smiled quickly into his glass. He was almost certain that Hermione would make it a point to make the staunch, sexist blood-purist uncomfortable. He would have to make sure he was nearby when they first met.

"If you are insinuating that I have a romantic interest in Miss Granger, then no," Tom said easily.

Suddenly he remembered the hot puff of her breath next to his ear. _And don't mistake sex for romance; they have absolutely nothing in common._ His grip tightened around his chalice.

"She's an interesting person," Tom continued casually. "And I find that she's quite clever. Most assuredly worthy of my curiosity. Certainly the most tolerable Gryffindor I've ever met."

Black raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. I'm looking forward to meeting her – and the Mallery boy. Perhaps you could introduce me, Mister Riddle."

Tom internally rolled his eyes. Just ten minutes ago Agricola Malfoy had suggested the same thing. He gave Black a well-practiced smile. "It would be my pleasure. I – "

He froze. Immediately the air around him warmed, and he felt an overwhelming sort of magic swirl around him. Pollux obviously felt it too, though to a lesser degree. The man shifted suddenly, the muscles of his face tightening. Tom wondered if he even knew what the feeling _was._

Tom knew exactly what it was, knew the origin of the electricity that lingered restlessly in the air and made the hairs on his arm stand up. Hermione Granger had entered the room. After she'd accidentally unleashed her magical aura in the hallway the previous week, he'd become attuned to it. She usually kept it carefully controlled, but tonight he felt the presence of it plain as day. It was not as strong as it had been when she'd let it slip out; she was still exerting some control over it. But it felt…anxious. Restless. Ready to flood into the space around them and wreak havoc.

"Speak of the devil," he said to Black. He knocked the rest of his punch back, and turned towards the door.

His eyes bypassed the beautiful Iris Fawley and the darkly alluring Raven Flynn and their nameless and inconsequential dates, and went straight to the figure in red that was stepping down into the room. He felt his stomach flip and his heart rate change slightly, as though the blood had thickened in his veins and it had to work harder to get to its destination.

Of course, from the very beginning he'd noticed that she was fairly attractive – even upon their first meeting, when she had been covered in blood, sweat and dirt. But it was different, tonight. She'd never before done anything to make herself prettier. She always smelled nice, and she had naturally good skin, and even her crazy hair had a wild look about it that was appealing in a reckless sort of way – but tonight she'd put effort in, and it was a visually stunning transformation.

He saw her scan the room; saw her catalogue the space with a soldier's mind. Suddenly her eyes found him, and their gazes met. Her eyes were bright and fixed hotly on his face.

He smirked, and gave her a mock salute. To his surprise she grinned, the flash of her dimple an indicator of its genuine nature. She saluted him back, her mannerisms playful. Then the Fawley chit was tugging at her arm, and she turned away from him, and the moment was broken.

Pollux Black cleared his throat. "You two seem to have developed something of a rapport," he commented softly.

"Or something like that," Tom returned, still watching the vision in red. Slughorn was now accosting her and Mallery, waving his hands about jovially and no doubt speaking about something completely asinine. Mallery was somehow managing to nod and smile politely while simultaneously assessing the room with his cool, stony eyes. Hermione's full attention was on the Potions professor, and she was smiling and laughing at something he said; it was a fake laugh, but very well executed. As she had done with Tom the bartender, she laid the charm on thick. Yes, she would have done all right in Slytherin, if not for her bleeding heart.

Black nodded and smiled falsely. "Perhaps you should go greet them. When they are finished making their rounds, steer them in my direction, if you would."

"Of course," he said. Tom shook the man's hand and watched as he slipped away towards the corner where Malfoy was engaged in conversation with Avery's great uncle Matlock. Tom observed them for a moment before he turned back towards the direction of the entrance.

She'd turned entirely away from him to speak to Temple Bones, and that was when he noticed that her dress was backless. He gave into the urge to ogle her skin, and wished more than anything in that moment to trace the thick raised scars on her back with his tongue. He felt his body flush hotly, and was suddenly grateful that he never got red in the face. But Merlin, he _wanted_ her. It was a desire that went beyond reason.

He refused to admit that it unsettled him.

Suddenly something pointy hit him in the side of the neck. He hissed in irritation and looked to his left before snatching a paper airplane out of the air. He opened it.

 _Forgive my impertinence, My Lord, but if you're trying to convince the world that you aren't interested in her romantically, you're not doing a very good job. –E_

His nostrils flared, and he looked across the room to where Edmond stood with Nott and Violet Greengrass. The boy's beady dark eyes flickered to meet Tom's, and then jumped away.

Lestrange _was_ impertinent; but he had a valid point. Tom was being foolish and careless. Once again, he blamed his loss of control on the stupid witch standing on the other side of the room. He gritted his teeth.

Impatient, he grabbed two glasses of punch and strode very purposefully over to where they were standing.

It seemed that she was just as attuned to his magical energy as he was to hers, because she turned slightly to watch his approach. He didn't know why, but the thought pleased him. He, like she, kept his aura under wraps at almost all times. It was too powerful, too dark, to unleash in the company of all but his followers. But she'd felt it, and she hadn't recoiled. She hadn't been surprised by it, or shown any indication that she was afraid of him because of it. And, as it had been from the beginning of their acquaintanceship, he somehow trusted her not to go spilling his secrets.

He thought, perhaps, that it was because she had secrets, too. And so far she knew far too many of his, and he knew _none_ of hers.

In addition to teaching her a very painful lesson on respect, he also needed to even the scales. He needed information on her. On _them._ So far his contacts at the Ministry had still managed to come up with squat. Wherever their records were, they were buried deep.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said to Bones, who was staring at him in poorly concealed adoration. "I figured these two might be a bit parched."

"No, no, not at all," Bones gushed. "I'm going to go talk to Iris anyway." He knew the Hufflepuff prefect to be a fairly sensible girl, but, like all of the other girls in this ridiculous school, she went brain-dead around him. He would have been flattered, if it wasn't so damned _pathetic._

Temple walked away. Hermione turned towards him entirely, then, and he got the full force of her beauty up close. Her hair was swept back into some sort of ambiguous updo that flattered her bone structure. She was adorned with jewelry that must have cost a bloody _fortune_ , and her eyes were lined in kohl and framed with those ridiculous fucking eyelashes that were made all the more dazzling with a coat of mascara. She smelled divine.

He did not let his attraction show on his face, merely smirked, looked her up and down, and handed her a glass of punch. "You clean up nicely," he said succinctly. He turned to Mallery next, who took the glass from Tom's hand with a nod of thanks and guarded silver eyes.

"You look better than I've seen you since you arrived, Mallery," he complimented. "Much healthier."

Draco shrugged and sipped his punch; Tom saw an amused smile flit across his mouth, no doubt tasting the alcohol. "I feel better. I'm sure I will tire quickly this evening, but at least I made it here."

Tom cleared his throat. "If the two of you have a moment, there are many people here who are most anxious to meet you." He raised his eyebrow. "They've enlisted my help in introducing you."

Hermione's eyes flashed with discomfort, and she gulped down the rest of her punch in record time. "Might as well get it over with," she said bluntly, looking anything but eager. "I'll need to stop by the refreshment table first to get another one of these," she continued, holding up her empty glass. "I find that I'm better able to stand the company of idiots when I've had a bit to drink."

Tom laughed out loud, and it surprised him as much as it did her. He couldn't help himself, though. She was quite funny, sometimes. He raised his eyebrows, still grinning, and then lead the way to the punch as she floated along beside him. Mallery trailed behind at a leisurely pace, his cane _clack clacking_ on the stone floor.

Tom filled her empty cup and then gave it back to her, making sure that their fingers brushed as he did so. He was fascinated with the shade of coral that suddenly appeared on her cheeks; she was so responsive to even the most innocent touch, and the feeling of triumph that roared in his ears was intoxicating.

"Luckily Black and Malfoy are both over in the corner conversing," he said moving between the steadily increasing throngs of people. "You can kill two birds with one stone."

"A double dose of idiocy…" Hermione said lowly, sipping at her drink. "I suppose swallowing it down in one go would be preferable to drawing it out."

Tom grinned again. "Careful what you say around all these people, Hermione," he warned, unable to contain his amusement. "The gossip chain around here works at lightning speed."

She nodded in supplication, and did not speak again until they reached the far corner. Black saw them coming, and they paused in their conversation to turn towards the newcomers.

"Ah," Malfoy said, looking pleased. "Excellent."

"Hermione, Mallery – this is Mister Agricola Malfoy," Tom said, already bored with the process. He turned to Pollux. "Mister Pollux Black," he continued. "And this is Matlock Avery, Conan's great uncle." He paused. "Mister Malfoy, Mister Black, Mister Avery, may I introduce my classmates Hermione Granger and Draco Mallery."

"Pleasure," Draco said, his eyes flat and devoid of interest even as he began to shake their hands.

"Delighted," Hermione said smoothly, holding out her right hand. She'd just taken the gauze off of her burn earlier this morning, and it was still red and angry and undoubtedly very painful.

At Malfoy's look of discomfort, she brought her hand back down and raised her left one. "Sorry about that," she said lightly. "I forgot about the burn."

Malfoy bent over her uninjured hand and kissed her knuckles. "An unfortunate Potions accident, by chance?" he said inquiringly.

"If only it were that simple," she said with a tight smile, holding her hand out to Black. "It was a dark curse, actually. One that I'm not familiar with, and am unlikely to see again; I'm afraid the caster may have taken his secret to the grave."

"A shame," Draco drawled as he shook Avery's hand, his voice a perfect blend of forced politeness and I-don't-give-a-fuck. "I would have liked to know how he did it." Hermione hummed in agreement. Tom wanted to snigger at the looks on the three men's faces; equal parts intrigue, disbelief and disgust.

He took the liberty of brushing his fingertips across her upper back. The skin was smooth, lightly tanned, and riddled with small, barely visible scars that had obviously come from various situations. The heat of her exposed flesh was _immense._ "It was the same curse that gave you the burn on your back?" he asked curiously. She nodded in confirmation. "Is it still painful?" he asked, staring at the partially revealed swath of somewhat scabby brown skin that covered one of her shoulder blades.

"Quite," she responded in clipped tones. Tom removed his fingers, and held in his smile as goosebumps appeared in their wake.

"Dark magic, you say?" Avery said, looking just a hair uncomfortable. "How very…unfortunate."

She fixed her eyes on the older man. "Indeed." She paused. "So, Mister Avery, I hear that you are a member of the International Confederation of Wizards," she said, her tone one of such genuine interest that Tom wanted to clap for her astounding acting skills. "And Mister Malfoy, you have an active seat on the Wizengamot, as does Mister Black," she said, gesturing to Black and meeting his eyes. Tom saw a muscle in Pollux's cheek spasm. Tom knew the feeling. Her gaze was compelling and entrancing and also rather perilous.

"That is correct, Miss Granger," Malfoy said with a nod. Tom noticed that his eyes were flickering over to Mallery constantly. He would admit that there was an uncanny resemblance between Mallery and Malfoy, and it was a bit disconcerting. But Malfoy's long hair was a bit darker, and his eyes were bright blue, and his frame was broader and stockier than Draco's leanly muscled one.

"But you don't want to hear all about our boring Ministry jobs," Pollux said with a smile. He was not nearly as good at making it seem sincere as Hermione was; or Tom himself. "We'd very much like to learn about you: where you're from, what your life has been like, the war in China." he said.

Hermione looked to Draco, and they had one of those silent conversations that infuriated Tom. He'd never met two people so close. Not siblings, not spouses, not parent and child. They were so attuned to each other that they could read the expressions in each other's eyes.

Mallery cleared his throat. "Unfortunately there's not much to tell, really," he said coolly, taking a sip of his drink and tapping his long fingers against his cane. "We've been at war for quite some time. It's really not as exciting as it sounds."

The pretty Gryffindor hummed in agreement. "War is a very dirty affair," she said with a frown. "And there's never enough to eat. It's really rather dull. The same thing over and over again: fighting, starving, running, killing, _being_ killed…"

"It's all very morbid," Draco affirmed. "And many of our stories are painful to recount. There aren't very many tales to be told where we haven't lost friends and family. They are few and far between."

Malfoy's eyes flashed in annoyance at their evasive answers. Tom himself was frustrated at the utter lack of information that they'd revealed.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Avery said, actually sounding half-genuine. He pushed his round glasses up his nose. "We are just curious. You see, there aren't records of you anywhere. China is too disorganized right now to offer up anything of substance, either. The Ministry has even tried to get its hands on the school roster, but they haven't had any luck."

Draco lifted his glass up to his lips, but Tom could see the amused smirk curl his lips behind the privacy of the chalice. Hermione looked completely unfazed, her expression not changing in the least.

"We have some old papers from China that I've managed to hang on to," she said casually. "I used them to open a Gringotts account for the two of us. But they're not entirely complete. Mainly just birth records and things like that. Basic forms."

"It's probably for the best," Mallery added dispassionately. "We're very private people, and we'd also kind of like a fresh start here in Britain, unhindered by files and files of family trees and financial records and school transcripts and passports and every other vague form that the Ministry deems important."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Very dull process, that," she said lowly. "Quite the hassle."

"Another drink, Granger?" Mallery asked her before any of them could respond. "You've finished yours."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, please." She turned to the rest of the group. "Would anyone else like another glass of punch?"

Avery declined, but Malfoy and Pollux nodded. "Surely you won't be able to carry that many glasses, Mister Mallery," Agricola said skeptically.

The handsome blond smirked. "I _am_ a wizard, Mister Malfoy," he said certainly. "I think, somehow, I'll be able to manage." He winked good-naturedly, and turned towards the refreshment table.

Hermione smiled at them, her expression tinged with sadness and nostalgia. "Draco doesn't have the energy for these sorts of things – not like he used to," she said. "He tires very easily because of his illness."

Pollux waved it away, unconcerned, but Malfoy's eyes honed in on her face. "Can you tell me more about the curse he was hit with?"

Hermione shook her head. "All I saw was dark smoke. It knocked him unconscious immediately. I…" She cleared her throat. "We were in the middle of a hectic battle, and I didn't have the time to detain the witch who'd cast it and ask her about it – not that she'd likely have given it up in the first place. I had to…dispose of her. I very much wish I could go back in time and protect him somehow."

 _I had to…dispose of her._ Tom inhaled heavily. He was suddenly overcome with the desire to see her kill. What curses did she use, he wondered? He had already seen her cast the killing curse in Conan's memory, and he'd been witness to her ruthlessness and creativity in killing the Russian spy with a spell _she_ had _created._ He was willing to bet she had quite a few interesting spells in her arsenal. He wanted to see them all.

"But he will recover, yes?" Avery asked, looking disturbed.

"Of course," Hermione replied with a cheery smile. The lie tripped right off of her tongue. Tom, having observed her closely for the last couple of weeks, could sense the strain underneath her words.

"Excellent news," Malfoy said, looking disappointed.

Tom wanted to laugh out loud. None of these men had gotten anything of worth from the two slippery students. Hermione looked sideways at him, and he caught her eye. He gave her the smallest of smirks. Her face betrayed no emotion, but her eyes were full of humor; the kind of humor that came solely from making fools of others.

Tom turned as he heard the clack of Draco's cane. The blond was wordlessly and wandlessly floating all four glasses in front of him as he returned at a leisurely pace. He lifted his left hand, and three of the four glasses hovered over to their respective owners. Tom fought amusement as Hermione plucked hers out of the air and immediately took a conspicuously large sip.

"Thank you, Mister Mallery," Pollux said. "I'm impressed by the display of wandless _and_ wordless magic. Most adults haven't even learned." He paused to sip his drink. "In fact, Professor Burke was just telling us a few minutes ago how both of you were able to cast corporeal patronuses today in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It seems that, despite your young age, you have accomplished great magical feats."

Neither Draco nor Hermione responded to the flattery with any emotion other than indifference. "Thank you, Mister Black," Hermione said graciously. "We've had years of experience. War is a fast and bitter teacher." She looked over at Mallery. "You look weak, Draco," she said. "Would you like to dance a waltz or two and then head back up to your room?"

Draco nodded in affirmation. He did indeed look tired. "Excuse us, gentlemen," he said suavely. "I'm going to dance with my lovely date here and then retire for the evening. It was a great pleasure to meet all of you – I feel sure we'll meet again soon."

Hermione smiled at the men gathered in the corner. "It's been wonderful speaking with you this evening," she said graciously. "Perhaps after a dance and some food we can speak again. I'm especially interested in the British Wizengamot's decisions on women in the workplace, and would love to speak with a Ministry employee about it. I find it quite…fascinating." The last word was tinged with cynicism that Tom doubted the others could hear. "I hope you continue to enjoy your evening." With a respectful bow of her head, she slipped away after her companion and headed towards the dance floor.

Tom turned towards the three men who were still staring after her, looking confused and impatient. He smiled. "You get used to their…presence," he advised, unable to find the right word to describe the feeling of standing near the two enigmatic soldiers.

"The girl is very articulate," Malfoy commented, frowning. "Mallery is as well, of course, but seems rather taciturn."

"The scars," Avery blurted out. "They're just children."

"Children, Matlock, are exactly what they are _not,"_ Pollux said softly, his voice steady and full of calculation and curiosity. "I think their childhoods ended a very long time ago." He looked at Tom. "You were right, Mister Riddle. She is certainly interesting."

Tom thought he saw the top of Mallery's pale head through the burgeoning crowd; thought he saw a flash of rich crimson the color of fresh blood. He exhaled. "Yes," he said quietly. "She is."

 _Interesting,_ he thought, _and_ _ **mine.**_

oooo

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 **So I know that this chapter is super boring and lame, but I just** _ **had**_ **to break these chapters apart. It ended up being over 27,000 words, and I wasn't even finished yet, which is just absurd for a single chapter. Chapter 20 will be up either tomorrow or Monday, I promise. You don't even have to comment on this one – it's basically just setting up the next couple of chapters.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _She cocked her head and smirked. "Said the spider to the fly," she murmured, staring into his eyes._

 **Also, just thought I'd mention: "Agricola" is an old family name of mine – my father's side of the family is very old, southern highbrow, and our records are impeccable. We also like to recycle names. "Theophilus Agricola Feild" is buried in the floor of a Presbyterian church in Petersburg, VA; my father's first name is Theophilus and his middle name is Feild. Five out of thirteen first cousins have the middle name Feild, and my own middle name is Feild as well. We're descended from a bunch of Welshmen. The patriarch of the original Feild family was Agricola Feild, and he made his fortune in horse-thievery sometime during the 16** **th** **century. It's quite the legacy. There are all sorts of interesting ancestors in our family line that have incredible stories. Very entertaining.**

 **Luckily, the name Agricola didn't survive to make its way into the past three generations. I think eventually even my staunchly old-fashioned great-grandparents put their feet down on that one when naming their children. Thank God.**

 **Love you guys.**

 **Giraffe :)**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks for all of the reviews, y'all! I can't believe I've gotten over five hundred. It's amazing. I couldn't do any of this without you guys, so thank you, thank you, thank you.**

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oooo

She's got cherry lips, angel eyes  
She knows exactly how to tantalize  
She's out to get you danger by design  
Cold-blooded vixen. She don't compromise

Sweet talkin' lady, love how you entice  
Sugar, with just the right amount of spice  
Charming, alluring everyone's desire  
She's out to get you, you can't run you can't hide

She's something mystical in colored lights  
So far from typical but take my advice  
Before you play with fire do think twice  
And if you get burned, well, baby, don't you be surprised  
-"Sugar" by Robin Schulz feat. Francesco Yates

There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. –Washington Irving

For an author, the nice characters aren't much fun. What you want are the screwed up characters. You know, the characters that are constantly wondering if what they are doing is the right thing, characters that are not only screwed up but are self-tapping screws. They're doing it for themselves. –Terry Pratchett

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oooo

 _Monday, March 29, 1999  
_ _Number 12 Grimmauld Place_

" _You're a bloody idiot!"_

 _Hermione storms through the hall and bursts into the kitchen, following Draco and Harry as they support her_ _ **moronic**_ _boyfriend, who has blood streaming from a nasty gash that travels from his obliques down to his knee. Pansy, Ginny and Bill enter behind her, covered in dirt and sweat._

 _Ron laughs at her statement, wincing as he is plopped down into a chair. Draco, being the best at healing spells among them, sets to work stopping the blood flow until Molly Weasley bustles into the room, looking pale but determined. Malfoy steps aside, dabbing at a cut on his own face. He pulls his hand away, looking more irritated than anything that his perfect face has been marred. Hermione would have giggled, if she wasn't so goddamned_ _ **mad.**_

" _You could've been killed!" she shrieks at Ron, trying to fight back tears._

" _And you_ _ **would**_ _have been killed, if I hadn't jumped in front of you," Ron counters, grunting as his mother cuts his shirt away from his muscled body._

" _Honestly, Granger," Malfoy drawls, rolling his eyes, "you'd think you'd be grateful that you're alive. And how is this any different from that time you took a slicing hex for me, or just last week when you took a stunner for Cho? You're the queen of idiotic self-sacrifice. You can hardly criticize someone else for doing the same."_

 _Hermione fumes in the face of his logic. Ron grins gratefully at his childhood nemesis._

 _She cannot help the tears that finally spill over. "I know," she admits, feeling stupid. Harry puts an arm around her. "I know that. I just…I love you. You know that. I don't know what I would do if something happened to you."_

 _Ron sighs, and reaches out to take her hand. Despite the pain he is undoubtedly feeling, his eyes are as clear as ever. "Then why would you think that I feel any different?" he asks softly, pulling her hand up to kiss the inside of her wrist. "Do you not know how I feel about you?"_

 _Hermione's tears come harder._

" _Marry me, Hermione," Ron says quickly._

 _Her eyes jump to his face in shock. His eyes are sincere. "What?" she says quietly._

" _Marry me," he says with a smile. "We've been together for almost a year now," he says, his eyes bright with excitement. "I love you. I'm never going to_ _ **stop**_ _loving you. So marry me."_

 _She cannot help the wide smile that splits her face. "Okay," she says tremulously. "Okay. When?"_

" _Tomorrow," Ron says recklessly. "Tomorrow afternoon."_

 _Hermione giggles. "All right," she agrees._

 _Molly claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my goodness," she says, her eyes watery. She stands up and takes Hermione's face in her hands, kissing her on both cheeks. She repeats the process with her youngest son. "Another one of my babies getting married," she says excitedly. She turns to Malfoy. "Draco, darling, will you finish up here?" she asks. "I have to go tell Arthur. Oh, how will we set up the backyard in time?" she says worriedly, bustling out of the room before any of them can respond._

 _Pansy comes to stand beside Hermione, and grabs her hand. "If you give me something to alter, I can make your dress," she offers quietly, her cobalt blue eyes kind. Hermione nods, unable to speak._

 _Ginny runs a hand down Hermione's braid. "And I can do your hair?"_

 _Hermione puts a hand over her mouth, still in shock. "Okay, yeah."_

 _Draco snaps his fingers in front of her face. "Come on, Granger, pull it together," he says teasingly. "I don't think I've ever seen you this inarticulate."_

 _Hermione smiles at him – nothing can douse her good mood. She throws her arms around his neck, and she feels him pat her on the back awkwardly. "All right, all right – you're getting your Gryffindor germs all over me."_

 _Harry laughs, and he pulls her into a hug as soon as she lets the blond go. "You've been infected for a few months now, Malfoy," he says. Draco sneers, but Hermione thinks he is secretly pleased._

 _Harry releases her, and she leans down to kiss Ron full on the mouth, cradling his face in her hands. "I love you," she says against his lips. "God, I love you."_

 _He smiles and brings his arms up around her waist. "I love you," he returns. "And I can't wait to be married to you."_

" _I'll want to keep my name, of course," she says primly, slipping back into her usual all-business persona. "Or at least hyphenate."_

 _Ron rolls his eyes, but grins. "Of course you will."_

 _Harry and Malfoy both snort in agreement._

 _Hermione smiles. Pansy tugs on her arm. "All right, lovebirds," she says, curling her lip in fake disgust, "we have a dress to make and a wedding to plan. You can have her back when we're done."_

 _Hermione giggles, gives her fiancé one last kiss on the lips, and twirls away with her two female friends. As the kitchen door swings shut behind her, she hears Bill say, "Well, you'll need to get her a ring."_

 _Ron's laugh echoes into the hallway. "Already got one, mate," he says smugly. "Been hiding it for a couple of months now."_

 _As she climbs the stairs, Hermione feels her heart swell with joy and love. Nothing will ever tear apart her love for Ron. Nothing._

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oooo

"Hermione."

She looked up at her dance partner. Malfoy's grey eyes were full of concern. "Where did you go just now?" He chucked her under the chin affectionately.

She sighed. Her brain had been working a mile a minute since she'd first laid eyes on Tom Riddle. And she'd met the infamous Pollux Black and Agricola Malfoy, and now her mind was even more muddled.

"Just thinking," she said quietly, allowing him to dip her slightly before they went back to their waltz.

"About what?"

She grimaced. "I'm just not used to this," she continued. "I'm used to – to active combat. I'm used to open war, and confrontation, and being straightforward and honest. I'm used to pain and death and the rush of adrenaline." She huffed out a laugh. "All of this posturing, and the polite smiles and small talk; all of these politics and manipulation…" She shook her head. "It's just such an abrupt change."

"You've become good at playing the game, Hermione," Draco said softly. "You'll be fine. Did you see the look on their faces?" he said with a mischievous grin. "Totally blindsided. They didn't know what to do with you. It was vastly entertaining."

Hermione did smile at that. "Do you know what Ron said to me years ago, before we got together?" He shook his head. "We were in fourth year. He was yelling at me about Krum, and I told him that if he was so ill about me going to the Yule ball with him then he should have asked me himself. And he just blurted out 'You're completely unapproachable! You know why you don't get more male attention, Hermione? Because you're bloody intimidating, that's why!'" She snorted.

Draco outright laughed. "He wasn't wrong," he said with a wide grin.

"No," Hermione said sullenly. "He wasn't."

They were silent after that, both just enjoying the peace of the waltz. A few other couples were twirling around them, including Magnus and Iris, who made a handsome pair. Misty McGill was giggling over in the corner with the younger Greengrass sister, a fifth year Hufflepuff with a flowery name that Hermione couldn't remember. She had the same pale blonde hair and green eyes as her older sister, but was far less elegant and far less mature. Druella Rosier was there, as well as her cousin Gavin, who was staring at the backsides of every woman that walked past.

She suddenly noticed that Draco's steps were off. "You're lagging," she said accusingly. "You never lag. You need to rest."

He sighed in annoyance, but was obviously too tired to argue. He reluctantly stepped off of the dance floor with her, looking resentful. "I hate this. I feel so…powerless."

She sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. Perhaps Mister Barenbolm will have some answers for us this weekend when we see him in Morocco."

"Perhaps," he returned softly. She could hear the doubt in his voice. It broke her heart.

"Do you want me to walk with you back up to your rooms?" she asked. "It's not very far."

He shook his head and graced her with a small smile. There was sadness in his eyes. "No, Hermione, I'm good. If I suddenly have a fainting spell on my way back, I'll send you a patronus. Try to enjoy the party. And please be careful."

"I will be," she said as he waved goodbye to Raven and Ignatius, who stood watching them from the wings. "I'll try not to let my temper get the best of me."

He stepped up the two stairs to the door, and then exited into the hallway. She followed, but paused in the doorway.

"Just remember," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Confidence. Don't let your mask slip around these people. They're sharks, all of them." He gave her a gentle smile. "If you need me, you know where I'll be. In the meantime, try to control your vicious temper."

She scowled, but nodded, grasping his hand one last time; then he turned away from her, and she watched him hobble off with his cane. Of course, he somehow managed to make his limp elegant and classy. Bloody Malfoys.

She sighed, and turned back to the party, suddenly feeling tired and old. She took a moment to observe the room from the top of the stairs.

Slughorn had done an excellent job with the decorations, of course. It was done up in shades of copper and a deep wine color. Simple tapestries lined the walls, alternating in color. Some of them were shiny copper with dark red embroidery; some of them were the opposite. It made the room warmer, and effectively softened the typically gothic look of the severe grey stone.

The floor was smooth and glossy, ivory marble shot through with threads of sparkling copper and gold. The seating area that he had arranged in the far left corner consisted of formal couches and armchairs; all upholstered in the purplish-red color that tied into the theme. The tablecloth on the refreshments table was gold, and the ceiling had been spelled to drop autumn leaves, which vanished before they reached the top of people's heads. Some people danced; some stood against the walls and conversed; some drank a bit too much… There was a dark-haired couple that lounged on a loveseat in a private corner, and she noticed briefly that the woman's eyes kept flickering over to Hermione periodically. She stiffened in suspicion, but was immediately distracted.

"Admiring the view?"

Hermione turned to her right. She cursed herself for being so unaware of her surroundings; she hadn't felt the girl's approach. Sloppy.

The young woman in question had her dark hair pulled back into a stylish braid, and was clothed in lavender dress robes. Sharp dark eyes watched her from above a somewhat Roman nose, and a camera hung on a strap around her neck.

Hermione hummed in agreement and smiled at her. "Very autumnal. Professor Slughorn has excellent taste." She turned fully towards the other woman. "We haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet, I'm afraid," she said kindly. She stuck out her hand. "Hermione Granger."

The unknown girl shook her hand heartily. "Sophia Bones." Hermione stiffened, and Bones smirked. "Though you don't know me, I know plenty about you. The Daily Prophet is very interested in your story."

Hermione smiled tightly. "Ravenclaw, Head Girl, graduated in '38, recently broke her engagement to the young Smith heir, has a special fondness for pretty shoes, knows everything about anyone important, one of the best journalists the Daily Prophet has ever seen…" She paused when Sophia's eyes flashed in surprise. "Temple idolizes you. She regales us with stories of her childhood quite often. But exactly what do you think you know about me? I'm curious."

"As long as you're willing to answer some questions on the record," Sophia said primly. She looked unsettled.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I'm more than willing to answer any questions you have. Some things are very personal; others are classified and pertain to the war in China. I'm limited in what I can tell you, but I'd like to set the record straight. As long as you don't twist my words, I'll speak with you on the record."

"I am very serious about printing the truth in my articles," Sophia said. "Of course, some embellishment and exaggeration are essential to a good story, but I've never printed lies. I'm unwilling to ruin my reputation by messing about with libel."

Hermione smiled. "Well then, it seems we've reached an understanding." She cleared her throat. "I would like to go on the record and officially state that I have no romantic intentions regarding Tom Riddle," she said casually. She looked the other girl in the eye. "And the feeling is quite mutual, I can assure you. Nor do I have designs on any of my other classmates." She raised her chin imperiously. "I am romantically unattached, and plan on remaining that way for quite some time."

Sophia frowned. "Nothing? Not even a crush?" she asked. Her eyes flashed teasingly, and Hermione felt herself warm to the girl ever so slightly.

She chuckled. "There are many attractive men in this school, Miss Bones," she said with a wink. "I'm not above noticing such things. But I'm not in a place where I can afford to get too enmeshed with someone. And I often find that my personality can be a little bit…off-putting, to some."

Sophia cocked her head curiously. "Why would you say that?"

Hermione cleared her throat and broke eye contact with the former Ravenclaw, looking out into the crowd. "I'm from a different world, Bones," she said slowly, softly. "I'm not meant for being courted and getting married and having children. I've seen terrible things. That sort of baggage is too heavy to bring to a relationship." She smirked. "Besides, I've been told by three men in my life – my very best friends – that I am intimidating," she said amusedly. "I would hate for my beau to ever feel emasculated by me. You know how they get touchy about those things."

"Do I ever," Sophia agreed with an eye roll. "You're obviously a confident woman," she continued. "Experienced. That can be scary to some. Especially to young men that haven't accomplished half of the magic that you mastered years ago. Speaking of which: can we discuss patronuses?"

Hermione huffed out a sigh. "I knew it was a mistake calling that much attention to ourselves," she said with a grimace. She made the decision to sit down on the top stair, and Bones quickly followed, situating the skirts of her dress so that she was comfortable. "But on the other hand I'm glad that Draco and I were there to offer advice and support to the other students. I felt very useful, and was honored to help Professor Merrythought teach."

"Interesting," Bones said, finally getting out a quick-quotes quill and setting it up to take notes. "I did not hear what forms your corporeal patronuses took. Will you enlighten me?"

Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Mine is a lioness; Draco's is an Antipodean Opaleye."

"How lovely," the older girl said cheerily. "Very advanced magic. I'm impressed." She paused. "Can you tell me anything about the war in China?"

She wrung her hands nervously, biting her bottom lip. "I had the honor of speaking with Mister Black, Mister Avery and Mister Malfoy earlier this evening. They asked me the same questions. I'll tell you what I told them: it's messy, you are perpetually wounded, you live wherever you can find a safe place and are grateful for the meals you get, though they are few and far between. You consistently lose people that you love," she said faintly. "The reason Draco and I have decided to stay here in Britain is because we have no friends or family to return to. They're all either dead, or missing and presumed dead."

Sophia's eyes were swirling with greedy intrigue, but she also looked appropriately empathetic. "I'm so sorry. It sounds like life has been very difficult for you."

Hermione shrugged. "We try not to give in to self-pity," she said with a cynical twist of her lips. "It could always be worse, and the only thing you can do is keep moving forward. I have a great appreciation for the fact that I am still living. And as long as you're alive, there is hope for a better future."

"That's a very mature way of looking at things," Bones said, her voice very neutral. "You are obviously very brave."

"It's not maturity," Hermione said quickly, perhaps a little harshly. "Or bravery. Cynicism and experience, Miss Bones," she said darkly. "Out of all of the things I used to be, those traits have remained. Perhaps I'm mature – more mature than most people my age, certainly – and perhaps I'm brave…but mostly I am tired." She looked over to Bones. "Do me a favor, Sophia?" she asked quietly, using the reporter's name familiarly.

"I can try," the girl responded, looking far more mellow than she had before the conversation had turned to less savory things.

"When you write your article – whether you think it's worth writing or not," she said, "Don't romanticize it. People seem to think that being in a war is somehow _exciting_ and _glorious…_ " She trailed off. "It is a harsh, cruel existence," she continued. "And I'd rather not have to smile and nod and regale the public with stories of my 'awesome, thrilling adventures'. They weren't awesome," Hermione said bitterly. "They weren't thrilling. They were terrifying, and bloody. And if they knew – truly knew – what Draco and I have seen and done, they would never ask about it again." She sighed tiredly. "But of course they won't understand. So I'll grit my teeth and bear it. But if you choose to publish some of my words in your newspaper, don't sugar coat it. And don't make Draco and me out to be awesome war heroes – or, on the flip side, the poor, unfortunate orphans who were forced to fight for their home, blah blah blah." She rolled her eyes. "We're neither of those things. We're just two strangers from another world that are trying desperately to fit in and make a new life for ourselves."

Sophia hummed. She looked sad, but fascinated. "I'll do my best to make it as real as possible," she said sincerely. "You're very articulate and communicative," she continued. "You express yourself very well with words. It shouldn't be hard to capture that emotion in writing."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you. I was thinking about getting some more punch," she said, standing back up and smoothing out her sleek dress. "Would you like some as well?"

Sophia leaned close to her. "I think it might be spiked," she said lowly.

Hermione grinned. "Oh, most definitely. I'm a bit of a lush, I'm afraid, and have a very high tolerance for alcohol, so this will be my…fourth cup?" she said uncertainly. "It'll take at least four more to do the job."

"The job of getting you drunk, you mean?" the elder Bones sister said, looking just a little bit scandalized.

"Tipsy," Hermione corrected, moving in the direction of the punch bowl. "I never get drunk. I don't like the loss of control. And it's potentially very embarrassing at a party like this, so full of important people and journalists with cameras," she said with a cheeky smile.

Sophia chuckled. "You are full of surprises, Miss Granger," she said amusedly.

Hermione snorted internally. _You have no idea._ She reached the punch bowl, and had to wait behind a wizard in a green waistcoat. Sophia stood beside her.

"Perhaps some other time we can discuss lighter things," the journalist said easily. "I'd love to talk to you about this whole 'inter house unity' trend you've started. My sister raved to me this evening about how much she enjoys the company of the new friends she's made in other houses. I'm impressed with how quickly you've brought people together." She paused as Hermione handed her a cup of punch. "And I'm also curious about how school is going for you, and what plans you have after you sit your N.E.W.T.s. Perhaps we could meet in Hogsmeade some weekend and have lunch?"

Hermione lifted her glass with a smile. "That sounds nice. Feel free to write me, or send something through your sister. I've enjoyed speaking with you this evening. I hope you enjoy the rest of the party – and your company is always welcome, of course, in case you get bored with all of the simpering smiles and political games."

Sophia choked on her punch. She coughed. "Indeed. See you later, Hermione," she said, looking equal parts charmed and bemused.

After Sophia left, Hermione stood by the refreshments table for a moment longer, grateful for the reprieve. As Draco had said, she certainly could play the game, but it was exhausting. Things like this came much more naturally to him – at least, before he'd gotten so ill. He had been raised in this environment; he could lie in his sleep. But it wasn't natural for her, and she itched with the desire to leave, to throw a temper tantrum and release some of the energy and anxiety that was roiling nauseatingly in her stomach. She quickly took a sip of her drink.

 _Steady, Hermione,_ she thought. _Try to relax. You are confident. You are capable. You are a good person, a smart person, and you are above all of this petty socializing. But it's a tool that can be used. Tom Riddle has been smart in acquiring contacts here; now you must do the same. So suck it up, and get back to acting._

"You should really slow down on the punch, Granger," said a voice from behind her. She turned.

She smiled at Conan as he approached. For some reason she was glad to see him. He had a calm aura, and he didn't require any false smiles or sweetly spoken pleasantries.

"This is my fourth drink, Avery," she said with an eye roll. "It'll take double that to get me tipsy. Three times that to get me drunk." She snorted. "If anything, I should drink faster. Perhaps it would make this night more bearable."

His eyebrow rose skeptically. "Doubtful," he said, his voice calm and low as usual. But then again, nothing about Conan Avery was loud. "But I commend you for trying. Over the years I've just learned to grin and bear it."

She gasped mockingly. "You mean to tell me that you, Conan Avery, don't enjoy Slughorn's parties?" She clucked her tongue, struggling to keep the smirk from her face. "Shocking. And here I thought you were so outgoing."

He grunted, and his lips twitched; it was his way of laughing. "Oh yes. I'm positively thrilled to be here."

The manner in which he said it had Hermione laughing out loud. She took a sip of her drink and shook her head in amusement. "You are a strange creature, Conan."

"Strange things tend to attract other strange things," he said dispassionately. "What does that make you?"

She gave him a wicked smile, and then downed the rest of her punch in three gulps. "Oh, I wrote the _book_ on strangeness. The rest of you are amateurs." She bumped him in the shoulder. "Dance with me?"

"Absolutely not. I hate dancing," he said, even as he allowed her to take his hand and tug him out onto the dance floor.

He was a decent dancer, she found – he was a wealthy pureblood, after all, and had probably had lessons from a young age – but absolutely loathed it. After the dance was finished, she shooed him away, saying, "Go find a dark corner somewhere and practice your facial expressions." He openly chuckled, then, and she considered it a triumph.

"I think, Hermione, that you might be the only person to succeed in making Conan Avery smile."

She turned and came face to face with Colt Diggory, who was looking rather flushed; she suspected he had been indulging in some of the scotch that was tucked into the pocket of Magnus' dress robes.

She shrugged, and allowed him to take her hand and put a somewhat sweaty palm on her waist. "We're friends, of a sort. We find each other tolerable," she said, her voice laced with humor.

"You really are taking this whole inter house unity thing to a new level," Colt said with a bemused shake of his head. His tone was full of skepticism.

"And why shouldn't I?" she asked quietly as he twirled her effortlessly around the floor. "Why shouldn't I want the world to be a better place? I have spent half of my life entrenched in conflict. Why shouldn't I want to have peace?"

The handsome Hufflepuff swallowed, looking properly chastised. "I didn't mean – "

"Don't worry about it, Colt," she said gently, fixing him with a smile. "I wasn't trying to be harsh. I suppose I'm just a little stressed this evening. I'm used to spending my evenings alone with a book, or with Draco, or gossiping with the girls in my dorm. I'm old. I don't have the stamina that I used to."

Colt scoffed. "You're no older than the rest of us, Granger. Don't be silly."

"I'm an old soul then, you might say," she said coyly. "I get rather grumpy if I have to stay up too late. I'm worse than a crotchety old man." She did not tell him her real age; nor did she tell him how war aged people, no matter how young they were. She was tired of talking about war. She wanted to talk about other things.

So she asked him questions about himself. Of course, he loved to talk about himself, so she listened to him rant on about his life (which consisted mainly of quidditch, his oh-so-important family, and his plans to join the Foreign Affairs and Sports Department after graduation) for two whole dances, and then left with the excuse of getting more punch.

She was unlucky enough to run into Tom at the table; or perhaps she was lucky, because, however much she hated him, he was the only match for her level of intelligence in this place, and she craved the contact.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, his tone one of bland disinterest.

"Like a _Furnunculus_ to the face," she said quietly, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He chuckled lowly, and they moved to lean up against a nearby column, both nursing fresh drinks. Hermione could feel the warmth of the alcohol flush through her body. She turned her head to study his profile. She made no effort to disguise it.

He was watching Iris Fawley from across the room; the beauty was standing with Lorcan McLaird, a previous Minister of Magic, Pollux Black, and an older woman who had the coloring of a Black. They were laughing over something, and Iris laid a hand comfortably on McLaird's arm, gesticulating with her other hand to punctuate whatever she was saying. They all looked very chummy together. Of course, Iris was related to the Blacks by blood, and her father was the Minister that came after McLaird, so they had probably all known each other for a long time.

She looked back at Tom. His face was blank, but his eyes were glittering savagely.

Family _would_ be a sore point for him, she supposed. Especially all this upper class do-you-know-so-and-so pureblood bonding; where exceptional students of mixed blood were only tolerated if they were extraordinary enough. She knew what it was to be an outsider.

She cleared her throat. "You look very smart," she said quietly. Something traitorous happened in her heart, because there was something so tragic about his envy. When he met her eyes, her stomach flipped.

"I know," he agreed, his tone sarcastically smug. "Apparently black is my color. The witches in here are quite enchanting."

Hermione laughed. "What a terrible burden you bear," she mocked. "Next time one of them comes to accost you and compliment you on the color of your robes, I'll come to your rescue."

He smirked. "What a generous offer," he said coyly. "Of course, that would mean you'd have to stay by my side for the rest of the night. If you're going to effectively scare them away, you'll have to be close enough to catch them in time."

She pursed her lips. "I stepped right into that one, didn't I?"

"Yes," he said with a smug laugh. "Dance with me."

Hermione felt an unexpected (and unwelcome) surge of excitement and dark anticipation. Of course, as much as she liked to think herself above such things, she was still susceptible to the proud thrill that came when a man _far_ more attractive than oneself asked one to dance. It was stupid, but an uncontrollable instinct. It was nice to feel beautiful, feel wanted – even if it was by the worst human being on the face of the planet. His ugly soul had nothing to do with how gorgeous his face was, or how fit he looked in his robes.

Regardless of her feelings on the matter, she shoved them down and approached the situation with a logical mind. It would not do to get all flighty now.

 _Confident. Proud. Capable._

She cocked her head and smirked. "Said the spider to the fly," she murmured, staring into his eyes. The comment pleased him; she could see the satisfaction in his inky gaze. She shot back the rest of her drink (her fifth…or was it sixth?) and set her glass down on a floating tray that passed by. "I think I have enough alcohol in my system to deal with having to dance with you," she said jokingly.

She held out her hand, and felt goosebumps rise on her arms when he trapped her fingers with his own and pulled her out to the dance floor. His other hand settled on her waist, and the tips of his fingers came past the end of her dress and rested against the bare skin of her back. Once again, she noticed that he had very large hands, and they were delightfully cool against the ever-present heat of her phoenix-infested body. The muscles of her back shuddered involuntarily at the gentle touch.

Suddenly she thought of one of those stupid Internet quizzes: _Which Disney princess are you?_ Except this one was titled _Which Hermione Granger are you?_ It went something like this:

The Dark Lord that is responsible for the deaths of everyone you love asks you to dance, albeit in a different timeline and as a stunning, charming teenager. Do you:

a) Stupefy him and run away, and then come up with a daring plan of escape to return to your own timeline that involves making a big scene, and yet somehow get away with it relatively unscathed.  
b) Stiffly decline, turn your nose up, and abandon him where he stands. You just remembered you checked out a new book at the library – _101 Ways to Utilize Bubotuber Puss –_ and you think that sounds _much_ more fascinating.  
c) Curse him to die with the slowest and most painful spell you can think of, laughing maniacally all the while.  
d) Accept, but say something witty and slightly insulting to make it feel like less of a betrayal; you also justify your acceptance as being necessary to proceed with your "plan," claiming that it has nothing to do with your attraction to him.  
e) Say something coy and intriguing, but decline just to annoy him.  
f) Smile demurely and accept, giggling all the while and staring unabashedly at his perfect face.

Hermione considered the answers:

a) You are spunky Hermione Granger during her school years at any point in her friendship with Harry and Ron.  
b) You are snotty Hermione Granger before fourth year, not to be bothered with frivolous things like _dancing._ _Honestly.  
_ c)You are post-torture, war-hardened Hermione Granger at her most vengeful.  
d) You are Hermione Granger after being friends with a bunch of Slytherins for a few years. Note: you also may be Hermione Granger in denial.  
e) You are rebellious Hermione Granger with something of a death wish.  
f) You are Lavender Brown. (Wait. What?)

She shook her stray thoughts from her mind. She was going insane. Once again, her eyes caught on the couple that still sat casually on the loveseat in the corner, unbothered by the other guests. Cursing herself for being so easily distracted, she gritted her teeth and turned her eyes away. She boldly looked up into Tom's stare and tried to focus on the moment.

Of course, he was a spectacular dancer. She rolled her eyes. "And of _course_ you dance flawlessly," she muttered. "Is there anything you _aren't_ good at? We've already established that my weakness is flying brooms; heights in general, really. Surely you must have _some_ sort of flaw."

He looked thoughtful. "I have a temper," he said reluctantly. "It doesn't often make an appearance. But it is…explosive."

She chuckled. "How ironic," she said. "The last thing Draco said to me before he left this evening was 'try to control your vicious temper.'" She snorted. "I suppose we suffer from the same affliction."

He frowned, but was curious. He twirled her effortlessly. "And what affliction is that?"

She grinned. "A significant lack of tolerance for stupidity and all things mediocre."

A slow smile stretched across his face; it was intense and sensual and it made Hermione's pulse jump.

She hated him for it, and she hated herself for twirling around in his arms and chatting to him as though she didn't know what he was, what he would _become;_ but he was just so much more interesting than anyone else in the school, and really, what did she have left to lose?

They danced in comfortable silence for a moment before he spoke again. "I didn't say it earlier, but you are exquisite tonight," he said quietly. The words were rough in his throat, and they burned down her core and left her floundering. "For a fly, at least," he murmured with a teasing smile.

Hermione gave an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes. "Did you just admit to me being the prettiest fly in the room?" she asked, her tone full of humor. She had to admit, she did enjoy the banter. "I'm _flattered."_

"Definitely in the top five," he returned with a raised eyebrow. His lips quirked.

She laughed, genuinely amused, and wacked him in the chest with her hand even as he let go of her waist to spin her around under his arm. He chuckled. When he caught her again, his hand landed fully on her unclothed back. He curled his fingers and traced the scars there, from the middle of the left side of her back to the bottom right corner. She swallowed as a shock of desire radiated from his fingers. Fawkes cooed in something that could have been pleasure, but that also felt a bit uncomfortable.

He smirked down at her. "The manticore?" She cleared her throat and nodded. "Remind me again where this happened?"

She smiled tightly. "I don't recall telling you in the first place."

"How fortunate, then, that you have the perfect opportunity to do so now," he replied slyly. He pressed his thumb firmly into the scarred flesh, and she swallowed. It felt like a warning. He was trying to exert his control. His hand was dry and cool and pleasant, not like Diggory's had been. His palm and the pads of his fingers were callused in places, a testament to the hard life he had lived in the muggle orphanage.

"Just because one has the opportunity to do something does not mean one _should_ do it," she replied primly, just to get under his skin.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why must you always be so frustratingly contrary?"

She grinned in satisfaction. "If I tell you everything about my life simply because you ask, our interaction would be _so boring._ I'll be frank. I enjoy our conversations. Don't lie and say that you don't like the challenge of having someone not bow to your will all the time." She wrinkled her nose. "Where's the fun in that?" She cocked her head, meeting his blazing stare.

A camera flashed, and the light hit his eyes, making them glimmer with blue for a moment – or was it grey? Maybe green? A combination of the three. It was swift and striking and happened so quickly that Hermione thought she may have imagined it. When she blinked, they were black again.

The song they were dancing to ended, and all of the dancers came to a stop. Everyone clapped – stupidly, because the orchestra was just a bunch of instruments animated with magic – except for her and Tom, who remained frozen, staring at each other in challenge.

Hermione sighed, and pulled away from him. "I'm going to get another drink," she said lightly. "And then there are a couple more people I need to…speak to," she said, thinking of the man and woman in the corner that had been watching her so unabashedly most of the evening.

She turned, and then thought twice. She looked back at him. His expression had slipped back into its mask, and gave nothing away. "It was a part of the Soviet Union, in central Asia," she said softly. "I believe they call it the Kazakh Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic, these days." She paused. "It's beautiful country," she continued wistfully. "Full of mountains and deserts, canyons and steppes and rivers and spectacular views. It was almost worth the scars: just being able to _be_ there, out in the middle of nowhere, where everything was pristine and untouched. It had a sort of…wild beauty." She smiled nostalgically, lost in a memory. "Nothing but cool, dry air and never-ending blue skies." She snorted. "I was just a little too curious, a little too adventurous for my own good. We were almost killed because I couldn't leave well enough alone." She paused, and her lips quirked into a smirk of their own accord. "You'll find I have quite a lot of trouble leaving well enough alone," she said with a cock of her head. "A good mystery, however dangerous it might be, has always been too enticing for me to resist." She let the suggestion linger heavily in the air.

The look on his face was difficult to decipher. Outwardly, he showed no sentiment; he just took her hand in his and pulled it up to his lips. "Thank you for the dance," he said, his eyes hot and hard and yet still somehow emotionally ambiguous.

She smiled tightly and did not shy away from his searching, penetrating stare. "Likewise, Tom," she said softly. She slid her hand from his and turned away. She did not care to admit to the feeling of bereavement that settled in her bones as soon as her skin no longer touched his.

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked to the punch bowl, and again when she turned towards the corner where the couple sat on the couch. Finally, when she was halfway across the room, the cold, clammy feel of being watched lifted from her body, and she exhaled the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

She stared down at the hand that held the fresh cup of spiked punch. It shook slightly. In an effort to relieve her nerves she took a healthy swig, feeling the vodka and juice mix burn down her throat. It settled warmly in her stomach, and she instantly felt better.

As she got closer to the couple in the corner, she saw them more clearly, and within seconds recognized who they were. _What_ they were. Their skin was stunningly beautiful and deathly pale, their eyes were the shade of the darkest, most bittersweet chocolate, and their dark hair was smooth and wavy; they were obviously related. Most notable, however, was the absence of movement. They didn't even breathe.

Fawkes, who had been steadily burning inside her since she'd first felt Tom's hand brush hers earlier that evening, flared brighter within her. That was all the confirmation she needed.

 _Vampires._

A whole new burden suddenly settled upon her shoulders. They had been watching her, she knew, because she _smelled_ odd. If they could smell her, did that mean that other magical creatures could, as well? Centaurs, werewolves, acromantulas: would they all know about the creature she was housing inside her – the creature that was starting to meld so deeply into her soul that she no longer felt as if they were two separate entities? Did Fawkes change her physically in more ways than the simple, subtle cosmetic shifts and the increased electricity of her magic? Would her blood taste different? Did her skin smell different? Was she releasing inhuman pheromones of some kind and not even realizing it?

Her face hardened, and as soon as she came within speaking distance, she conjured a chair (which had her receiving looks of disbelief from some of the patrons nearby; Hermione was sometimes not self-aware enough to realize that most wizards and witches couldn't just _conjure_ chairs out of thin air), pulled it close enough so that her knees were almost touching the two vampires', and immediately cast a _Muffliato_ around the area.

She stared at them with hard eyes. "Exactly how much do you know, and what can I offer you to ensure your silence?" she asked, her voice quiet but deadly. "Name your price."

The man chuckled. He was sinfully beautiful, with shiny hair that curled around the high collar of his waistcoat and full, pink lips. He was tall and lithe, and the planes of his face were sharp and full of hollows and dips that cast his visage with mysterious shadows.

The woman spoke first. "Perhaps we should get introductions out of the way before we discuss…more interesting things," she said in a low, accented voice. If she had to guess, she'd say eastern European, perhaps. Maybe Russian.

If possible, the woman was even more gorgeous than her companion, and reminded Hermione of some of the old movie stars that had starred in some of the classics that her parents had watched. Her hair was nearly pitch black, her eyes even darker, and her lips were painted a deep, provocative red that was only a few shades away from being black.

Hermione's lips twisted. "Hermione Granger," she said sharply, not offering her hand. With unfamiliar vampires, it would be unwise to initiate contact.

"I am Katarina," the woman said with a sultry smile. "This is my baby brother, Pyotr."

"A pleasure," Hermione drawled, feeling impatient. She did not continue, merely met their eyes and made sure that they knew she was not afraid. That was also important when dealing with vampires – not showing fear. And she had faced far worse than a couple of bloodsuckers, so she didn't feel particularly threatened; plus, Slughorn wouldn't have invited them if they posed too much of a risk to the public.

Katarina smiled brilliantly and leaned forward. "We have a name for you, you know – in our community."

"Hybrids," Pyotr said. His voice was quiet and smooth and it wormed its way into her brain like an insidious disease.

She narrowed her eyes. "Firstly, please don't attempt to compel me," she said tightly, shaking off the man's powerful attempt at compulsion. She strengthened her Occlumency shields and made sure that she had her guard up. "Secondly, I've never heard of a 'hybrid.' Perhaps you can enlighten me?" Suddenly she felt nervous. A hybrid? What on earth? In all of her reading and all of her travels, she had never encountered such a term applied to a person or a magical creature. This was…uncharted territory.

Katarina's smile was more than a little amused. "Losing your touch, brother?" she said quietly. Pyotr's lip curled. His sister continued. "It refers, of course, to a creature that is of mixed blood."

"Like a veela?" Hermione asked with a frown.

"Not exactly," the beautiful vampire answered. "Veelas inherit their status. It's purely genetic. A hybrid refers to someone whose transition was brought about by… _unnatural_ means."

Pyotr cleared his throat. "Perhaps unnatural isn't the proper term," he said unsurely. "It's a process that happens after birth."

"Attained through means not of a congenital nature," Hermione confirmed with a nod. "How does this not apply to werewolves?"

"Werewolves are not a merging of two species," Katarina answered. "Lycanthropy is a condition caused by a curse. A disease. The person who has been turned is infected with an illness."

"Not like you," Pyotr said, his lips curving into a wicked smile.

Hermione swallowed. "How have I never heard of this?" she asked, feeling a deep discomfort settle into her bones.

"It's not a common occurrence," Katarina said, sounding amused. "It can only be achieved when one or both of the species is able to exist purely in spirit form. For example, there is no such thing as a vampire hybrid, or a centaur hybrid."

"But the fae, or something like a kelpie, could accomplish this," Hermione said, leaning forward. Despite her discomfort, the academic in her was thirsty for more knowledge.

Katarina snorted. "Not that they would want to. The fae and many other spiritual magical creatures are odd, selfish, and often fickle beings. Notable exceptions are house elves, who are benevolent and subservient, and dementors and lethifolds, who have a very basic form of intelligence that doesn't lend itself to feelings and opinions. But fairies, sprites and nymphs are mischievous creatures, and when they do interact with humans, it often isn't a positive experience. Likewise, there are certain malevolent creatures with this capability – but still, creatures like erklings and kappas aren't so much interested in hybridizing as they are in eating and killing people. Kelpies and hippocampi are strange, and unpredictable – it is hard to know."

"It's rare, because the few spiritual beings that _would_ consider merging their soul with a human's aren't numerous," Pyotr continued. "Re'ems are notoriously shy. Creatures like the occamy and unicorn aren't prone to interacting with humans much at all. Dragons and sphinxes are generally too violent. Griffins and phoenixes are scarce, and very elusive. Also, phoenixes are known for their pure souls, and as such they only choose those with pure souls to house their spirits. I've never heard of anyone in your particular…situation. I'm sure it's happened before, but has most likely been buried in history."

 _Only choose those with pure souls to house their spirits…_ Hermione frowned. She wished she had a better way to communicate with the Fawkes inside her body. She was tired of this guesswork, and something just didn't _feel_ right. Perhaps she'd been a "pure soul" once upon a time, but she knew that she'd long since been tainted with the foulness of Dark magic. _So what gives?_ she thought, troubled. Fawkes did not stir within her, just maintained a constant curious presence around the two vampires.

"What about something like a dybbuk?" she asked curiously.

Pyotr shook his head and hummed. "That's a possession. Very different."

"How do you know about these things?" Hermione asked with a frown. "If it's so rare, how did you find out about it?"

"I've studied magical creatures for a very long time," Katarina said. "It's my specialty, so to speak. Phoenixes in particular; I find them fascinating."

Hermione cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. She thought about the vampire friend that Dumbledore had mentioned. "You didn't just happen to celebrate your 407th birthday, did you?" she asked curiously.

Katarina grinned. "You've spoken with Albus."

Hermione nodded. "He mentioned you, though not by name. What are the chances that he arranged for Slughorn to invite you to this party tonight simply to meet me?"

The ancient, dark-haired beauty threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, astronomical, dear Hermione. Though I noticed he is conspicuously absent, this evening. You'd think he'd want to introduce us himself."

Hermione snorted. "He's far too subtle for that," she said sardonically. "He tends to give people a push in the right direction, and then let them figure the rest out on their own."

"An infuriating habit," Pyotr said softly. He looked at Hermione with knowing eyes. "You seem very comfortable speaking about him. Have you known Professor Dumbledore for very long?" he asked.

Hermione smiled into her drink, though she felt her heartbeat stutter and her skin prickle. What a stupid mistake she had made. "Not long, no. Though I have spent quite a bit of time with him in the past couple of weeks, and grew up hearing about him – a mentor of mine at my school in China knew him very well," Hermione lied.

Pyotr chuckled. "I can hear your heartbeat, Hermione," he said, his voice silky and smug. "But I will not call you out on your lie. It is unimportant to me how you know Dumbledore. What I want to know is what you have in mind to offer us in exchange for our silence involving your…predicament."

Hermione swallowed. "You wouldn't happen to be interested in copious amounts of gold, would you?" she asked, thinking about the fortune she had tucked away in her purple bag. It was a long shot, but still.

Katarina smiled charmingly. "How very uncreative, Hermione," she said teasingly. "Surely you don't think that after four centuries on earth that we wouldn't have plenty of money of our own?" she asked rhetorically.

Hermione sighed in irritation. "It was worth a try."

"How about your wand?" Pyotr said, his eyes gleaming greedily. "I hear it's very pretty. An unusual wood with an unusual core. It would look good in my collection of magical artifacts."

Hermione snorted. "Even if I was willing to give it away, it would probably burst into flame as soon as I handed it to you," she said with a small smile. "It will work for no one but me, and it isn't always…benevolent or passive when in another's possession." She stroked her chin. "However, I do have other things that might be worthy of your collection. Unfortunately, quite a few of them are quite rare and quite dangerous – not to mention illegal – and exposing them would be worse for me than exposing the secret of my status as a hybrid. You know one of my secrets – I'm not giving you access to more."

Pyotr's smile was vicious, but Hermione saw the spark of appreciation in his eye. He wouldn't push her on it.

Katarina cleared her throat and looked thoughtful. "And what if we were to ask for, say, a pint of your blood?" she said, her eyes flashing with both intrigue and hunger.

Hermione wrung her hands. The request wasn't surprising, when she thought of who was asking, but for some reason it hadn't occurred to her. She thought for a moment. What harm could potentially come from them possessing some of her hybridized blood? She knew nothing about any properties it might have. She wished Draco had stuck around long enough to participate in this conversation; but did she not already know exactly what he would say? He would be horrified at the prospect of giving two dangerous strangers something that might have unknown consequences. He would have offered them a basilisk fang, or an occamy eggshell (yes, she did have one…long story), or even something like the invisibility cloak (which she absolutely wouldn't give away. It wasn't even an option).

But she wasn't Draco, and she wasn't the Hermione of old, who would have smacked her for even considering something so irresponsible. She was Hermione Granger: warrior, widow, friend, killer. And this version of Hermione Granger had a taste for recklessness that she often struggled to control. Besides, she looked at her options, and saw few, if any, plausible alternatives.

And so she found herself nodding. It was stupid, probably, but these vampires were friends with Dumbledore and, as such, they couldn't be that bad. And anyone who'd lived for over four hundred years was bound to be mature enough to recognize the potential danger that came with the unknown.

She knew she was rationalizing what was ultimately a poor decision – she ignored it.

"You aren't technically alive, so an Unbreakable Vow won't work with you," Hermione said slowly, "but I would advise you to be extremely careful; both in who you tell, and how you use it. It could very well kill you if you were to drink it, or even touch it – phoenixes are creatures of fire. Fire kills vampires. So please, I urge you to be cautious."

"How thoughtful," Pyotr mocked.

Hermione glared. "I've been told I have a pure soul," she said smarmily. "Surely it isn't a stretch to think that I'm a kind person?"

Katarina laughed delightedly. "Pure soul or not, Hermione Granger, I find that you are quite delightful." She cocked her head. "Although I am curious…" She reached across the space between them, and brushed an ice-cold hand against the juncture of Hermione's neck and shoulder. Hermione stiffened. "You've been bitten. By one of us."

Hermione huffed out a laugh, even as she shivered under the woman's seductive touch. Vampires were hardwired to entice their prey with the promise of pleasure; everything about them, from their voice to their appearance to their touch, was designed to entrap human beings. Hermione was no exception, although her mind was stronger than most. "I was careless. No matter. It was over before it had even begun."

Pyotr raised an eyebrow. "Dare I ask what happened to the offender?"

Hermione blushed, but met his stare nonetheless. "I had a propensity for fire magic even before this bloody bird of mine decided to hitch a ride," she said tightly.

Pyotr openly winced, and Katarina's lips quirked into what might have been a smile. She stroked Hermione's cheek fondly – and far too familiarly for Hermione's taste. "We'll owl you, dearest Hermione," she murmured. "We can't very well drain your blood into a cup right here," she continued jokingly. "In the meantime, your secret will be well kept."

Hermione nodded. She stood, effectively putting a foot of distance between herself and the two siblings. "Indeed. It was lovely to meet you both – I look forward to future interactions," she said formally. She gave a fluid curtsy, and swiftly turned before either of them found another excuse to touch her.

As soon as she dispelled the _Muffliato_ curse and left the private corner, she felt a hand grab her arm. She would have pulled her wand and had it pressed into the jugular of the offender in record time, but her nostrils were filled with the scent of cedar and peppermint, and she forced herself to relax and turn to face her new companion.

"Yes, Lestrange?" she said, raising an eyebrow imperiously. "Can I help you?"

Edmond swallowed, and released her arm immediately, looking bashful. The slender boy with the sallow skin and pretty, delicate features was no more than an inch taller than her, so she did not have to look up to meet his eyes.

"Those are vampires," he hissed lowly, looking shifty.

Hermione smiled. She gestured to herself. "Witch." She pointed at him. "Wizard." She put her hand on the column next to her and patted it. "Column. Now that we're acquainted with what things are, perhaps you can get to your point?"

His jaw clenched, and he rolled his eyes at her cheek. "My point is that they're dangerous, and you shouldn't talk to them."

Hermione looked over at the beautiful pair that still sat, unnaturally still, in the corner. She caught Katarina's eye, and they shared an amused smile.

"They _are_ dangerous," she agreed, looking back at Edmond. "But then, so am I. You'll find I am more than capable of taking care of myself, Lestrange." She leaned closer to him and smirked. "They also have really sharp senses. Excellent hearing. Practically any conversation happening in this room is theirs to observe." She winked. "Savvy?"

Edmond swallowed, and his eyes flickered over to the two undead siblings. Katarina waved mockingly. Edmond turned his eyes away and tugged on the collar of his shirt.

"Don't worry," Hermione said, laughter in her voice. "They probably won't hurt you…unless you ask for it, of course," she added with a sensual smile.

Edmond blanched, and Hermione laughed. She could hear the rich, beguiling laughter of Pyotr and Katarina as well. She threw one last look to her two new acquaintances, and then put a hand on Edmond's shoulder and steered him away.

"I'm flattered that you're so concerned for my safety, Edmond – may I call you Edmond?" He nodded reluctantly, and she smiled. "But I find it unlikely that you actually _care."_

The slight boy's nostrils flared. He did not respond to her snarky comment. "Would you like to dance, Miss Granger?"

Hermione held out her hand, and she took it. "One dance. I find that my feet are starting to go numb, and I'm long overdue for a conversation with Mister Ollivander."

Edmond nodded. He did not look entirely pleased with the prospect of dancing with her; he looked equal parts disdainful and nervous – like he smelled something foul but was trying not to call attention to it, while at the same time being aware that he was in the presence of a very bad-tempered chimera. It was an interesting mixture. There was also that ever-present glint of mischief in his eye that intrigued her.

"Thanks for spiking the punch, by the way," she said with a grin. "A very good idea."

"It makes for happier guests," Edmond said with a quick grin, his expression of indifferent discomfort slipping momentarily to reveal the trickster underneath. He was a very sprightly, nimble dancer; unlike Avery's reluctant, overly practiced footsteps and Tom's fluid, graceful movements that were heavy with sensuality and an undercurrent of power.

Hermione smirked. "Happier, and less graceful," she said jokingly. "My toes are probably black and blue by now."

"Mine have fared little better," Edmond said sourly.

There was a silent pause, and then Hermione spoke. "As pleasant as this frivolous small talk is, Edmond, I'm still left at a loss for why you asked me to dance." She fluttered her eyelashes teasingly. "My father was a filthy muggle, so I'm sure it positively _hurts_ to touch me."

Edmond rolled his eyes. "I don't like muggles. And I don't like mudbl – muggleborns," he corrected swiftly. "But I don't have an issue with half-bloods."

There was a telling glint in his eye. She smirked slowly, despite the rage and resentment that coursed through her body; she might have been posing as a half-blood, but she would never forget what she was and where she came from. "I should think not," she said softly.

His jaw clenched and his eyes flashed, confirming her theory that he knew about Tom's true parenting – or at least suspected. But she was not going to bring the subject out into the open; she'd told Riddle that she wouldn't expose his secret, and she intended to keep her word – at least for now. Of course, _exposing_ wasn't the same thing as _confirming…_ but she would desist.

 _If I play my cards right,_ she thought, _Riddle will fall on the sword forged by his own lies. But it has to be done right._

Gods, she sounded like Narcissa.

"So," she continued. "You don't have a problem with half-bloods. That's good to hear." She cleared her throat. "By the way, I wanted to…apologize…for what happened in the Forest," she said with a grimace. "Sometimes I get…carried away."

The brief flash of fear that slipped across Lestrange's brown eyes was incredibly satisfying. "Will – will Ambrose ever be the same?"

They both turned their heads to look at Mulciber, who stood quietly up against the wall next to Conan. Hermione smirked without remorse. "Not around me, no." She hummed. "Sensory memories," she said conversationally, "are stored in the body, Edmond. It would be a painful and invasive process to remove them – if it even can be done. Better just to leave them."

"You sound like you are well acquainted with the concept of 'sensory memories,'" he said boldly, his eyes boring into hers.

Several images flashed before her eyes, and she felt a shock of pain hit her body; it was so quick that it was over before it had begun, but she made a noise in her throat. Feeling flushed all of a sudden, she halted their dance.

"If you'll excuse me," she said stiffly, desperately needing to get away, "I need to run to the ladies' room."

His wrist tightened on her arm. "Granger," he said, his eyes full of a strange sort of desperation. "Be careful with Tom," he said, almost so quietly that she couldn't hear.

Hermione turned back to him, the memories and pain and ensuing nausea fading in the face of his odd statement. She took a deep breath. She grabbed his hand again, and they picked up the dance where they left off.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," she said loftily, raising an eyebrow. "Would you care to elaborate?"

Edmond's nostrils flared in impatience. "I thought you were smart."

Hermione grinned. "You shouldn't make assumptions, Mister Lestrange." She paused. "Tom told you to ask me to dance, didn't he?" she said softly.

"Of course he did," the dark haired boy returned irritably.

"And do you always do what Tom tells you to?" she asked, piercing him with her stare; she heard Draco's voice in her head.

 _There's something…_ _ **compelling,**_ _about your eyes. Something mysterious that makes one want to look closer._

Lestrange scrunched up his nose, as if he found the idea distasteful. "Usually," he said reluctantly. "Tom can be…persuasive. I'm sure you'll understand eventually."

She smirked, feeling the flare of rebellion burst in her chest. "I'm quite sure that I won't, actually." She cocked her head. "I am not immune to his charms. But I assure you – I'm far less yielding than he seems to think."

She thought of Ollivander at Shell Cottage all those years ago. _Walnut…dragon heartstring…twelve and three-quarter inches. Un – unyielding. This belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange; treat it carefully._ He imagined him saying something like that in regards to her: _This belonged to Hermione Granger…unyielding._ The thought unsettled her.

Edmond snorted and rolled his eyes. "You underestimate him."

Hermione smiled sadly, and stared into the slim brunette's eyes. "No," she said quietly, intensely. "I don't."

His brow furrowed; he looked confused, and off balance. The dance ended, and Hermione stepped away from him.

"Just…be careful," he said again, looking uncertain. She noticed how he wiped his hand on his robes – the unusual heat of her palm had caused him to sweat. It was strange that he hadn't commented on it.

Hermione smiled at him. "Thank you for the warning," she said kindly. She patted him on the shoulder, and he flinched. "Though somehow I doubt that was part of Tom's instructions, and I have to admit I am curious about your motives." She shrugged, but then winked, letting him know that she wasn't going to rat on him. "And thank you for the dance. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Edmond."

"You too, Granger," he said cordially, his voice tight and his gaze unsteady. With a jerky bow of his head, he strode away, and she shook her head in baffled amusement before following his lead and stepping back into the crowd.

She wandered over to where Raven stood chatting with Mister Ollivander. They both looked up as she approached. "Mind if I join you?" she asked with a smile.

"We were just talking about you, actually," Raven said, her mouth curling into the smirk she always wore, and her voice cool and tinged with its ever present, barely detectible sarcasm. "Perfect timing."

"Oh?" Hermione said with an eyebrow raised. "Good things, I hope."

Ollivander chuckled hoarsely. "Oh of course, Miss Granger. Miss Flynn here has been raving about you. Singing your praises."

Hermione looked at Raven, who rolled her eyes. She burst out laughing. "Flynn?" she asked skeptically. "I'm not sure she's capable of singing praises, Mister Ollivander," she said with humor. She looked at her Slytherin friend and winked. "Cold to the core, this one."

Flynn gave her a mock sniff and held her chin up. "If you _must_ know, I was simply complimenting you on your ability to produce a patronus," she said snobbishly. "Quite rare, that."

"I am impressed, Miss Granger," the thin wandmaker said with a bow of the head. "Tell me: did it feel any different when you used your new wand, compared to previous ones?"

Hermione shook her head, and then paused. "Well, the wand I had before this one wasn't originally mine," she admitted, hating that Bellatrix Lestrange had been on her mind more than a few times today. "It belonged to an…enemy. It took me over six months to get it to bend to my will." She sighed. "It was generally reluctant to perform lighter magic, but I always managed. So yes, this time was different. It was easier, more natural. Perhaps not as effortless as it was with my very first wand…but more powerful, somehow."

"I've been reading up on nundus," Mister Ollivander said with a self-satisfied smile. "Fascinating creatures. Terrifying, too. I should say that the effortlessness of casting a patronus with your first wand was due to both your more innocent nature as a child, and the fact that the wand was made of…" He trailed off and looked at her expectantly.

"Vinewood and dragon heartstring," Hermione said quickly. "Somewhat supple, but not pliant."

"Precisely," Ollivander said, his voice excited as he talked about his passion. "Vinewood is a noble wood, and dragon heartstring a powerful core. Combine that with some flexibility and the innocence of childhood, and Light magic like a patronus would come fairly naturally. This pink ivory wand," he said, waving his hand expectantly – she quickly pulled her dress up and slipped her wand out of her stocking and handed it to him, "has a very…interesting nature." It sparked in his hand, and he chuckled uncomfortably, looking equal parts fascinated and apprehensive. He ran his fingers up and down the shiny, bright wood. "It is…conflicted."

"Conflicted?" Raven asked curiously, looking at Hermione askance. "How so?"

"The wand itself is rigid – unyielding," Ollivander said lowly, testing the flexibility of the wand. "But in the wood I sense a sort of oscillating temperament – it's almost… _impish."_

"Impish," Hermione stated skeptically. She raised her eyebrow.

"Yes, Miss Granger," he said with a smile. His silver eyes sparkled with fascination. "The wand as a whole is unyielding, but the pink ivory wood itself is flexible in nature. It suggests great adaptability; indicative of a user that is able to think on her feet, and roll with the punches so to speak. It also says, perhaps, that you are able to look past what is seen as fact and question things; an inquisitive nature, if you will. But the rigidity of the wand itself says that you are not easily swayed from your personal beliefs – your code of ethics, and what you believe is wrong and right. The wood says you are willing to bend the rules sometimes – the wand says you are not easily corrupted."

"Corrupted," Hermione said, baffled. "I've found over the years that I've been corrupted quite a lot, Mister Ollivander," she said quietly.

"I don't mean corrupted by Dark magic, Miss Granger," Ollivander clarified. "That falls into the category of bending the rules, being flexible, adapting – the mischievous nature of the pink ivory. I mean that you are not easily influenced by other people or outside forces," he continued. "You are, at your core, unable to be warped," he said. His tone was kind, his eyes full of understanding. "It is not a bad thing."

For some reason, Hermione felt tears well in her eyes. "Thank you," she said thickly, blinking away the moisture that wanted to fall onto her cheeks. She thought of Tom, and of her attraction to both him and his magic. She thought of the _Probilium_ curse, and how powerful it made her feel, how unstoppable. "That is…somewhat relieving." She paused, refusing to look either Ollivander or Raven in the eye. "What is your opinion on the core?"

"Ah," Ollivander said, rolling the pink wand between his fingers. "Much like the phoenix tail feather, I believe that nundu heartstring might have a greater propensity to…have a mind of its own. Act of it's own accord, perhaps. It has been known to happen with a select few wands. Also, nundus by nature are solitary, defensive creatures. Despite their ferocious reputation, they do not typically attack unless provoked. There is an inherent darkness to their nature, but they are not creatures that you might label as evil – like red caps and dementors – or even bloodthirsty, like manticores and chimeras. They have more of the nature of the dragon; when left alone and unthreatened, most breeds are not aggressive or even particularly interested in contact with other creatures.

"In contrast to the bold wood, the core of your wand, though independent by nature, is quiet. They counteract each other. Both wood and core are immensely powerful – but they balance each other in a most interesting way. I might compare them to a spousal pair – a husband and wife that are different but somehow go well together, each one's strength compensating for the other's weaknesses. Whereas with most wands, I might use a similar analogy, but with twins, or another blood-bonded familial relationship. Because a spousal link is between two people who are not related by blood, it is almost a more powerful combination. Twins, or siblings of any kind, really, are from the same stock. They may be different, most assuredly, but the relationship is an easy one, a natural one – something that has become routine, because they have grown up together. The love is intrinsic. With a husband and wife, you have to _work_ at love; you have to put a lot of effort into making the relationship successful and lasting. So when they _do_ accomplish that, it makes the bond all the more impressive. Does that make sense?"

"Blood relations often take each other for granted," Hermione said softly, nodding. "They love each other, but it's almost expected. Obligatory, in some ways. That doesn't mean it isn't powerful. But being _married –_ that is a choice. So it makes it…more profound, somehow. You can't choose your blood family – but you do choose a spouse, and that means you are _choosing_ to love them without the feeling of responsibility, of obligation, that comes with loving your parents and brothers and sisters. Also, you can't really _cheat_ on your family or friends – you have multiple members of your family, after all, and multiple friends; but you can cheat on your spouse – there is only one of those. And when you choose not to do so, that loyalty is a powerful thing."

"Very astute, Miss Granger," Ollivander said with a smile. "I think you will find that sometimes your wand may act strange – like I said, conflicted," he said, handing it back to her with a smile, "because, perhaps, the 'spouses' are having an argument." He chuckled at the image. "But in the end, they will always work together. And you will like the results, I think."

"I already like the results," Hermione said with a fond smile. "It's very responsive. There's a complexity to it that my previous wands have lacked." She looked up at Ollivander. "Thank you, sir," she said with a bow of her head, "for being so helpful in understanding it."

"Oh, you're very welcome, Miss Granger," he said, his pale silver eyes twinkling, "although I think we'll find that it has many more surprises in store. I'm interested to see more of it – if it does anything especially odd, please don't hesitate to contact me," he offered, reaching out and taking her hand in both of his. "I am happy to help."

"Thank you very much," she said, smiling. She squeezed his hand. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, Mister Ollivander. I think I'm going to talk to a couple more people, and then I might retire for the evening. I look forward to seeing you again sometime."

"Likewise, Miss Granger," he said with a smile. "Have a good night."

He turned away from them then, and Raven looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. "'Retire for the evening'?" she said skeptically. "It's only ten o'clock, Hermione!"

Hermione sighed tiredly. "Yes, and by the time I make my final rounds and get sucked into more conversation with Malfoy and Black – I want so badly to shove my accomplishments in their stupid, prejudiced faces, even if that sounds awfully arrogant – it will be closer to eleven, and I have to get up early in the morning. Not to mention Draco and I are leaving midday tomorrow and taking an international portkey to North Africa." She rubbed her eyes, grateful that Iris had secured her makeup with a spell. "Long distance portkey travel is so exhausting."

"North Africa? What on earth will you be doing there?" Raven questioned curiously, walking slowly with her along the edge of the room; two beautiful, glamorous young women, the one in red taller than the one in black; one with haunted eyes and one with a mouth that was perpetually stained with scarlet and curved into a cynical, condescending smirk. They were unaware of the eyes that followed their movements, both men and women, young and old, stares full of jealousy and admiration, curiosity and desire.

"Yes indeed, _Granger,_ what sends you off to _Africa_ for an entire weekend?"

Hermione and Raven stopped in their tracks, turning to face Druella and Gavin Rosier, along with Thoros Nott (who looked bored), Edmond (who was staring at Hermione with an unreadable expression), and Mulciber (who just looked ill). Tom Riddle leaned up against a pillar, arms crossed, looking like he'd just walked out of a magazine ad. _Irritating git,_ Hermione thought. _I'd like to punch him in his stupid, perfect face._ His face was smooth and impassive, but his dark eyes were full of irritation. Not at her, as she'd expected, but at the classmates that he so loathed for not having brains. The knowledge that he considered her worthy company when so few others had earned it was heady, and sent a wholly unwelcome flush of pride through her body.

 _Irritating girl,_ Hermione thought about herself. _Perhaps I should be punching_ _ **you**_ _in your stupid face._

Druella was the one that had spoken, and she was glaring at Hermione in poorly concealed dislike. Gavin was not even trying to hide his stare at the flare of her breasts and hips, and Thoros was faring little better, although Hermione would give him props for being subtler. Edmond's eyes jumped from her to Flynn and back again. Mulciber's gaze was fixed on the calf that was peeking out from the slit of her dress, no doubt staring at the ugly scars that Greyback had left her with. As if he could feel her eyes on him, he looked up and met her gaze, and abruptly lost all color and looked away again. She did not let her smirk appear on her face.

Instead she fixed Druella with a gentle smile – no one would be able to tell it wasn't genuine unless they were looking closely. Raven could tell. Likely, so could Tom.

"You look lovely this evening, Rosier," Hermione said kindly. "Your hairstyle suits your bone structure – you should wear it more often." She wasn't lying. The Slytherin's blonde hair was down and straight, but was pinned back from her face with diamond-studded clips. It highlighted her sharp, wide cheekbones and heavily lidded dark eyes. Besides the hair, she so resembled her two eldest daughters that it was almost painful to look upon her face.

Druella sniffed, but Hermione saw the momentary discomfort flash in her eyes. Before Draco's future grandmother (shudder) was forced to come up with a response, Hermione spoke again.

"Mallery and I are going out of the country on personal business," she said vaguely. She very purposefully did not reveal the location – best to keep the details under wraps. "Don't worry about it."

Tom's eyes flashed in frustration, but he still did not say anything. Thoros looked marginally less bored, though he still hadn't found a good enough reason to stop ogling her. Gavin was leering openly. Mulciber still looked ill.

Druella narrowed her eyes. "Does the Ministry know?"

Hermione struggled not to roll her eyes. "Oh, of course not," she said sarcastically. "I have this incredible magical talent. Every time I wiggle my eyebrows just so," she said, demonstrating, "an international portkey just bursts into existence. Very convenient. Sometimes during my free periods I pop over to Martinique for some sunshine. Such lovely beaches, you know."

Raven clapped her fist over her mouth, barely catching her laughter before it escaped. Lestrange's face broke into a shit-eating grin, and Thoros coughed to hide his amusement. Gavin looked sour, and Mulciber still looked like he was about to collapse. Tom's lips curled in a reluctant smile, and she caught his eye and gave him a lightning-fast wink that only he would catch. His smile widened, and his gaze said the sort of things that a gentleman would never say aloud in public; the sort of things that sent her heart skipping over itself like a clumsy rabbit on crack.

Druella's face reddened. "You're not nearly as hilarious as you think you are, you know," she said nastily, her eyes full of jealousy and a sort of intrinsic meanness that Hermione would never understand.

Hermione let the smile drop from her face. She fixed Druella with a cold look. "And you aren't nearly as interesting as _you_ think _you_ are," she drawled icily. "Which is why I've decided to take my company elsewhere." She paused and raised an eyebrow. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

Raven sniggered and led the way past the small group, Hermione following in her wake. When she passed Mulciber, she brushed her arm against his. He immediately went tense, and then he whimpered pathetically. Hermione made her best concerned face. "Ambrose, darling, you don't look so good," she said, cupping his elbow with her burnt hand and laying her left one on his forehead. His green eyes went wide with terror, and he began to tremble. "Perhaps you should go to the hospital wing," she said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "Such a shame – I was hoping we could share a dance."

With one last pat on the cheek, she pulled her hands from his person and turned away, her gaze sliding past a deeply unsettled Edmond, a curious Thoros, and a furious Tom who looked like he was seconds away from either killing her or kissing her. She gave them all one last chilling smile. "See you later."

When she and Raven continued their journey across the room, she ignored the dark-haired Slytherin's questioning looks. Just as they neared the seating area where Pollux Black and Agricola Malfoy sat talking to a few others, the other girl spoke.

"You aren't going to tell me what just happened, are you?" she inquired, her eyebrows raised.

Hermione smirked. "Probably not. It's not that I don't trust you, Flynn," she said with a shrug, "It's just…well, I don't trust you."

Raven laughed. "Probably a wise choice. Though typically Gryffindors trust far too easily." They shared a knowing smile. "Just for the record – I wouldn't tell anyone anything you told me in confidence." She paused, and cocked her head with a smile. "Even if it meant I could get ahead. I'm afraid I'm not that cold."

Hermione mock gasped. "Well then, what kind of a Slytherin are you?" she teased.

"Apparently less of one than you," Raven returned with a cool smirk.

Hermione shrugged. Perhaps she had a point. "Just for the record," she said, parroting Flynn's words, "if I _were_ to so foolishly trust someone in this school, you would be the first on my list."

Raven's smile was small and slow, but undoubtedly pleased. "Likewise, Granger," she said softly. "Likewise."

Hermione smiled, and then nudged her friend in the shoulder. "Come on, then," she said with false cheer. "Let's show these stuffy, sexist old men what they're missing out on. We've got work to do."

* * *

oooo

Tom watched Hermione for the rest of the evening.

Currently he was dancing with Druella, nodding and making noises where it was appropriate as she yammered on about herself; as if he actually cared what she had to say about Belvina Burke's dress robes, or how she had plans over the holidays to vacation in Paris.

But he was always conscious of where Hermione was – he'd watched her as she'd conversed with the two vampires in the corner, and as she'd danced with Edmond, and even as she'd stood with Ollivander and Flynn over behind a column, obviously discussing her strange wand (that he so very badly wanted to get his hands on). Now he watched her as she and Flynn sat with Black, Malfoy, Matlock Avery and Professor Burke and his wife (formerly Belvina Black, who was, indeed, wearing very expensive, very unfortunately colored robes; they went terrible with her complexion) and discussed Merlin knew what; if he had to guess, Granger was probably giving them a verbal lashing on women in the workplace. The thought amused him.

Still, the rest of the night passed quickly. He danced with Sophia Bones, and Professor Merrythought, and Violet Greengrass and her irritating little sister. He watched Hermione dance with Ignatius Prewett, Magnus Macdonald and once again with Colt Diggory. She also danced with Pollux Black, Professor Slughorn, Lorcan McLaird and Agricola Malfoy, all of whom were apparently both charmed and fascinated by her. She even danced with Thoros, who'd made her smile a handful of times, which had a nasty streak of jealous possession whirling through Tom's brain. Even though it irritated him (he would not admit to the flare of envy that flushed through his chest cavity), he could not help but be entertained by the obvious discomfort in Malfoy's eyes as she pinned him with that smoldering, unnerving stare. Black hid it better, but Tom noticed that he was equally unbalanced. Thoros was his charming self, but he also looked occasionally unsettled as he met her eyes, and Tom noticed that he wouldn't hold her stare for more than a few seconds. Alphard Black fared much the same when he boldly asked her to dance as well, although he didn't know what Thoros knew, so he had less of a reason to be uncomfortable around her. He didn't know how she'd tortured Mulciber, and hadn't felt the oppressiveness of her magic in the air around him; hadn't seen her cast a full-fledged patronus, or kill a man with a curse designed to slowly torture its victim.

Unfortunately, Tom did not get another chance to dance with her. She said her goodbyes to all of her friends and left shortly thereafter, sneaking another cup of punch as she exited, carrying the chalice out and somehow not getting called out on it.

Tom left shortly afterward, suddenly feeling tired. He talked to a few more important people, laid on the charm, had another glass of punch – but ultimately he found no more excuses to keep him there past midnight. The party was already starting to wind down – many had left, the prospect of classes and work in the morning weighing heavy on their minds.

Sighing, Tom gave Mister Malfoy one last acknowledging nod, and slipped out the doors, anxious to be back in the solitude of his quiet dorm; Edmond was to come by briefly, but only for a moment. It would be nice to just climb into bed and sleep.

Of course, he never once suspected the drama that would come to unfold over the next hour.

* * *

oooo

Hermione hummed as she made her way back to Gryffindor Tower, determined to stop by Draco's room on the way up and just check to see that he was all right. She took another sip of her drink and trailed her hand along the wall, the roughness of the stones pulling at the callused pads of her fingers.

It had been an interesting night. Contrary to what she had believed going into it, the party had not been boring. What with Tom's constant lingering stares that spoke of the sinful things he wanted to do to her, and her conversations with Ollivander, Black and Malfoy, and her dances with many of her classmates…she'd learned a lot. And, despite how her feet hurt, the wealth of information she'd gathered – no matter how inconsequential it seemed – was totally worth it.

She was especially intrigued by the two vampires she'd met, and couldn't wait to speak to Dumbledore about it tomorrow morning. Did he know about hybrids? Were there any books that covered the unusual occurrence, or was it so rare that it had only been passed down orally through the centuries until it had been all but forgotten? She was eager to pursue the matter further.

She was also looking forward to their trip to Morocco, and meeting with the curse-breaker who might have some light to shed on Draco's condition. It was –

She stopped dead in her tracks, feeling a warm wash of magic settle on her skin and in her brain. She hummed, feeling confused – but that confusion faded when Gavin Rosier stepped out from a hidden alcove, his wand trained on her. She frowned, but found herself unable to move.

"It's been a very long time since I've been _Imperiused,"_ she said quietly, trying to throw off the warm feeling of contentment that was urging her to just let go, let him control her. "I'm impressed," she continued. "People don't usually get the jump on me like that." She held up her punch glass, which was almost empty. "Though believe me, if I hadn't had nine glasses of punch, you would have been dead within seconds."

"Shut up," the hulking blond sneered. Her mouth snapped closed, all too eager to comply. "I'm sick of your smart mouth," he said, his bright blue eyes – the same shade as his son's, she noticed – glittering with the high of power. His _Imperius_ curse was well executed, for a seventeen-year-old boy. It seemed he'd had a lot of practice.

"There are better uses for such a pretty mouth," he whispered huskily, stalking towards her and reaching out to run a thumb over her bottom lip. "I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind if I were to…play a bit…before I bring you to him."

A hot flush of betrayal swept through her bloodstream – even as it happened, she berated herself for her stupidity. This was _Tom_ _Riddle_ she was thinking about. _Lord Voldemort._ So why did she feel so surprised that he would order one of his minions to follow her and bring her back to him so he could torture her?

Still. It seemed odd that he would trust Rosier, the least reliable of his minions, to do the job. "He would kill you if he found out you'd already had what he so covets," Hermione whispered, throwing off the compulsion of his order to stop speaking for only a moment.

"What he covets?" Rosier asked, slipping around to press his front up against her back. She could feel the bulky muscles under his dress robes, honed from years of being a beater for the quidditch team. "You mean _you?"_

"He's all but professed his intentions to seduce me, Rosier," she said, snorting.

Rosier made an amused sound in his throat. "Riddle has never expressed more than a passing interest in girls, Granger," he said. "He won't be too devastated, I can assure you. He won't care. He's never called me out on my habit of _Imperiusing_ other women, and he's not going to start now." He nipped the skin of her shoulder. "And you're just so _fuckable._ Even with those ridiculous scars."

Hot anger flushed through Hermione. This despicable man had used the _Imperius_ curse to get women to have sex with him? That was _rape!_

And now he was about to do it to her. She could probably have thrown the curse off any other time, but she was tipsy, and her brain wasn't cooperating as it should. She would dismantle his curse, certainly – she just wouldn't be able to do it as quickly as usual, and he would be able to do all manner of things to her in the meantime.

"You'll have to kill me afterwards," she said quietly, even as he pulled her back into the alcove and began to undress her. His hands were hot and sweaty on her lower back as he fumbled with her zipper. "Because if you don't, I will hunt you down and spend days killing you," she said, her tone one of calm, steely determination. His hands paused. "I will peel the skin from your bones, Rosier. I will saw off your testicles with a dull, rusty knife and feed them to you. I will _Crucio_ you until you go mad, and then I will pour acid on your body and watch in satisfaction as you disintegrate before my eyes. And whatever's left of you will be baked into a shepherd's pie that I will then offer to all of your buddies, and I will laugh as I watch them eat the pathetic remnants of your body."

Rosier froze. He removed his hands from her zipper and turned her to face him. "I would _Obliviate_ you afterwards, Granger," he said. The sneer on his face was belied by the disgust and discomfort she saw in his eyes.

"You could certainly try," she said amusedly, more grateful than ever for her trap mind. Even now, she was plucking the threads of his compulsion from her mind one by one. She stared into his eyes. "If you insist on following through with this little ambush of yours, I would advise that you do so by first taking me to Tom," she suggested. "He might let you do what you want with me, and this way you will eliminate any chance that he might kill you for touching me. Best just to ask permission first. You know that he's unpredictable at best, monstrous at worst. He wouldn't hesitate to kill you in a fit of temper and leave your body out in the woods to rot."

The truth of that statement hung heavily in the air. She smiled in satisfaction as Rosier grunted in what could have been agreement, and turned her around to start marching her down the hallway.

She was a slave to his whim. She walked obediently in front of him, trying to maintain her composure even as he occasionally reached forward to cup her breast or grab her arse. She breathed in heavily through her nose.

 _Patience, Hermione,_ she urged. _You'll throw this off. It'll just take some time. Just keep your wits about you._

Fawkes stirred low in her belly, equally as angry that he was trapped under the same compulsion. _Sorry, buddy,_ she said somewhat amusedly. _That's what happens when you decide to meld with another person. Better get used to it, for now._ He simmered angrily.

It was not far to Tom's quarters. The portrait that guarded the entrance to his chambers was a painting of a thestral. She wondered if they were invisible when painted, as well. She got her answer soon enough.

"Weird painting," Rosier said, his tone oddly conversational. "Just a bunch of trees and grass." The thestral fluttered its wings and snorted, and Hermione gave it a fond smile.

He knocked, once again stepping up close behind her to press himself flush against her. He sniffed her hair. "When Tom gives me permission to fuck you, little lion, I'm going to fuck you hard. On your hands and knees, right where a half-blood bitch like you belongs."

Hermione shivered, a kernel of fear settling in her heart. She buried it under layers of hatred. Hatred was what she needed. Anger was what drove her. She would _crush_ him.

The portrait door opened after a moment, and Edmond stood on the other side, looking disheveled. He took one look at Hermione and the wand that was pressing into her back, and his face tightened with unease. "What the hell, Rosier?" he hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes narrowed.

Rosier grinned in triumph. "Caught myself a little lion cub. Figured Tom might like to have a go at her, now that she's all pliant and eager to do my bidding."

Edmond stepped back and ushered them inside, glaring at Rosier all the while. "You're a bloody idiot," he whispered harshly.

"Gavin," said a voice from the corner. Hermione looked over and saw Tom in an armchair, his fingers steepled. "What exactly are you doing here?"

Rosier shifted, the confidence fading from his stance. "I had an opportunity, and I took it, My Lord," he said, his voice threaded with a certain measure of fear. "She was just wandering around in the halls, and I figured now was as good a time as any to bring her to you."

Tom's eyes narrowed hotly, and he stood. Hermione noticed that he'd shed his outer robes and was in a black dress shirt. His tie was undone and hung around his neck, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, giving her a glimpse of his smooth, pale collarbones.

"I thought I told you to _convince_ her to come with you, Rosier," Tom said through clenched teeth. "And if I'm not mistaken, you have her under the _Imperius_ curse."

Rosier swallowed as Tom walked towards them, moving as a leopard stalks its prey. "I just thought – "

Tom held up a hand. "You will be punished later." Gavin gulped, looking sullen. "But I see no reason not to take advantage of the situation." He came to a stop in front of Hermione, and reached out to trace a hand down her neck. "Is your curse strong?" he asked Rosier, looking over Hermione's shoulder.

"Yes, My Lord," Rosier answered, starting again to look more comfortable. "She's under my control."

Tom peered at her curiously. His eyes were full of wicked intentions. "Hold that compulsion, Rosier," he said smoothly, running his hand up her neck to cup her cheek. She shivered. He stared into her eyes. This close, she could see the colors in them swirl entrancingly. Such strange, beautiful eyes…

" _Legilimens."_

The stream of his consciousness was just as powerful as she remembered – even more so, perhaps, because this version of Lord Voldemort was still sane, the compartments of his mind at full strength and functionality. Despite his incredible power, the Voldemort of _her_ time had been a few cards short of a deck; young Tom Riddle was well organized and his intentions were clear and focused. Hermione's subconscious raged against the intrusion, but ultimately caved in the face of Rosier's spell. The combination of two minds exerting their control was too much. Instead, she quickly did what she could to organize her mind. Because of Rosier's curse, she could not fight back with Occlumency or Legilimency; but she could employ other means.

The tendrils of Tom's subconscious shuddered in surprise as they were trapped in her brain, unable to move about freely as he'd surely intended. Hermione felt his confused struggle before he was sucked into the darkness of the only memory strong enough to hold him captive.

 _She wakes up in the dark._

oooo

* * *

 **And so it begins. Next chapter is a doozy. Be prepared for Hermione's crazy rage monster.**

 **A snippet just to keep you anxious:**

 _Tom's nostrils flared; his eyebrows drew down and his jaw tightened in anger. His eyes were deadly. "Agreed," he said tersely. "What else?"_

 **You guys are great.**


	21. Chapter 21

**You guys are all amazing; I'm so honored to have so many of you following this story! Oh, and you're welcome for the cliffhanger. Yeah.**

 **Shout-outs to AvalontheLadyKiller (for whom I make embarrassing squealing noises when I read such amazing reviews), x2leoj (who is consistent and honest and honors me by PMing and reviewing), and, as always, electricsymphony, who is just** _ **so fucking awesome**_ **– a great writer, and a great friend (seriously, she has a way with words. Her imagery is so poignant, it's amazing).**

 **So, I'm kind of mad, because this first scene – Hermione's memory – was written a long time ago, but it was lost with my old computer. I tried so hard to recreate the magic of it, because it was just** _ **so awesome;**_ **I mean, one of the best things I've ever written, and the feeling of suspense that I'd created was** _ **terrifying.**_ **It even made me uncomfortable. But I wasn't able to capture it a second time, and it's so frustrating, because no matter what I do I just can't get it to be as good as it was. It's really disappointing. I wish y'all could have read it how it was the first time. I'm telling you, this computer thing continues to haunt me every day.**

 **Just a note: no, Hermione does not get sexually assaulted (unless you count Rosier being disgusting and the short snippet of a memory at the beginning of Chapter 12) in my story. Or any of the stories I have planned. Honestly, I don't know what I would do with her character. Plus, it seems like whenever you touch on the subject of rape, a bunch of obnoxious people will review and say shit like "That's not what rape is like" or "You obviously don't know what rape does to people." Which pisses me off more than anything else, because BITCH, you don't know shit about me, right? Seriously. Everything is relative anyway. Like I have a friend who suffers from PTSD because she was raped by a good friend of hers when they were both drunk. I also know a woman from the Congo that spent almost a year being gang-raped along with her two teenaged daughters. My** _ **personal**_ **experience with it involved a friend of a friend of a friend in college who beat me until my ribs broke and a girl in my dorm thought that I had been hit by a car. Not similar experiences at all, folks – but all equally as traumatizing. So don't talk to me about "That's not how it works." Maybe that's not how it works for** _ **you.**_ **Some women are so traumatized that they can't even** _ **speak**_ **about it for** _ **years**_ **afterwards; some of us just get angry, and that anger fills the spot that our terror would be if we allowed it. Some women are somehow able to move on. We are all different people with different ways of handling things, and believe me when I say that no two experiences are the same. So no, I'm not going to have Hermione be raped. That seems too cliché, and also takes the story into a territory that I don't want it to be in. I don't want to portray shit that might trigger some of my readers, and I don't have the energy to delve into the complex kind of trauma that sexual assault causes. It's a trauma that is far too varied and too complicated, for me personally, to put in a Fanfiction story. I respect those authors out there that do choose to tackle it (maturely and respectfully), because it's a tough subject, y'all. But it's not on the menu here.**

 **Anyway. That's my rant quota for the next couple of chapters. Of course, always feel free to skip my obnoxious author's notes. You are under no obligation to read all the shit I post about my personal life or my opinions on random things.**

 **That being said: trigger warnings for (past) character death, and gross stuff.**

* * *

oooo

Welcome to my nightmare  
I think you're gonna like it  
I think you're gonna feel like you belong  
A nocturnal vacation  
Unnecessary sedation  
You want to feel at home 'cause you belong  
Welcome to my nightmare  
Welcome to my breakdown  
I hope I didn't scare you  
That's just the way we are when we come down  
We sweat and laugh and scream here  
'Cause life is just a dream here  
You know inside you feel right at home here  
-"Welcome To My Nightmare" by Alice Cooper

Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean. –Maya Angelou

If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge? –William Shakespeare

Those who escape hell, however, never talk about it, and nothing much bothers them after that. – Charles Bukowski

* * *

oooo

 _She wakes up in the dark._

 _It is cold down here, in this place – wherever this place is – and she pulls her nightgown and robe more tightly around her, shifting on the hard stone floor and blinking rapidly until her eyes adjust to the darkness. She is on her back, still in her nightclothes, which are nearly soaked through with moisture. She tries to sit up, and it takes several attempts before she is successful. Turning her head this way and that to work out the kinks that have formed from sleeping on a cold, stone floor, she squints and pushes her loose, sticky hair from her face._

 _And then she remembers._

 _Her heart begins to beat rapidly within her chest as images flash before her eyes. She can feel the aftereffects of the_ _ **Cruciatus**_ _curse, and she shudders as pain flashes across her nerves, rendering her boneless._

 _She had been captured. Yesterday, her birthday. She had been grabbed from her bed in Shell Cottage, dragged through sidelong apparition until she had landed on a forest floor next to Ron, Seamus, Ginny and Fleur. Bill had not been there. Neither had Colin. Killed? Escaped? Hermione's brain struggles to catch up. How had they found Shell Cottage?_

 _And Seamus – oh, poor Seamus… She closes her eyes, bombarded with the memory of his death. He'd been torn apart, eaten alive by Greyback and his werewolves, and they had been forced to watch as he'd screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed –_

 ** _Drip._**

 _Her thoughts are abruptly brought to a halt when a drop of water lands on her knee. She shivers, and goes to wipe it away. She guesses that this leak in the ceiling is the cause of the puddle she is lying in and the wetness of her clothes. She runs her hand through the pool, and she frowns as her fingers hit a sticky patch._

 _She freezes. Water doesn't get sticky. She sniffs, and her congested nose is filled with the muted smells of dried urine and dead flesh. She gags. Suddenly her stomach is a squirming knot of worms; her heartbeat pounds in her ears. Mustering up what little wandless magic she can in her weakened state, a tiny orange flame pops into existence in front of her eyes._

 ** _Drip._**

 _Red, viscous liquid – undoubtedly blood; she has seen enough of it by now to recognize it – spreads across the floor around her. It is already cool and starting to congeal. Her previously white nightgown and robe are soaked through with the bright fluid, and her exposed skin is streaked with crimson. She draws a horrified breath._

 _Another drop hits her knee. Her bowels twist in her gut; her dread is a septic sort of fear, eating through her insides and burgeoning from her gut up to her chest. She finds it hard to breathe. She looks up –_

 _She lets out a broken shriek. There is a body plastered, spread-eagle, onto the ceiling. Hermione chokes on her own saliva as her eyes land on the torso of the corpse; the flesh has been split wide-open, organs on display, ribcage protruding and exposed. It is hard to tell where clothing ends and skin begins – everything is stained in red. Gelatinous gore clings to the bone, and what little blood is left hangs in precarious drops from a lung, dripping slowly in a teasing descent. Intestines dangle from the abdomen like undigested sausages._

 _She is too much in shock to register the roiling in her stomach. Her eyes travel to the face of the victim._

 _It is not much of a face anymore; just blood and pulpy flesh and brain matter and splintered bone. But Hermione knows who it is; the girl is only identifiable by her milky, freckled skin and the long tendrils of blood-soaked hair that drop down around her mutilated face. Her sister-in-law's engagement ring shines dully in the low light of the fire._

 _"Ginny," she chokes out. Unable to stand it, she twists onto her hands and knees. Her stomach heaves, but only dribbles of bile surge up her esophagus and splatter on to the stone. The pounding of her heart is loud in her ears. Oh, Ginny. "I'm so sorry, Gin," she says in a voice thick with tears. "Oh God. I'm so sorry."_

 _She is sorry because she should have been able to_ _ **protect**_ _her, to keep her safe, to be there to comfort her and advise her and keep her from harm, like any big sister_ _ **should**_ _do –_

 ** _Drip._**

 _She shifts, and her foot butts up against something soft. Terror floods through her body; it is felt deep in the ventricles, like a wedge of rancid fat clogging her aorta, a glob of thick mucus moving sluggishly through her arteries. She moves the flame, and turns._

 _Fleur sits slumped against the wall, unseeing eyes wide with the fear of her final moments. Hermione takes in the dried tears, the silvery hair sticky with blood; she claps a bloody hand over her mouth and sobs. Her other sister-in-law has a hand over her swollen belly, as if she'd been protecting her unborn child from death. Her legs have been cut off above the knee; the appendages are missing. Blood still leaks from the wounds, running in black rivulets between the cracks and ridges of the rough stone floor. The mutilated stumps of her legs look like spoiled ground beef, fleshy and raw._

 _Frantic, she scrambles away from the once-beautiful blonde; the witch who had been an incredible cook, and had so generously offered her grandmother's beautiful hair comb for Hermione to wear at her wedding. The woman who would have been an amazing mother – and oh Merlin, the baby, the baby was…_

 ** _Drip._**

 _Hermione's lip quivers. Tears drizzle down her face like rain on a window pain. She then sees a figure to her left. She smiles tremulously as relief floods through her body. "Ron!" she says, her voice weak and hoarse and trembling with horror and grief. She scrambles over to him, notices that he is sitting up straight, his legs crossed._

 _It is only when she gets closer that she realizes something is wrong; he is too still. An unfamiliar sort of cold dread settles deep within her bones; the bowel-churn, the stomach-turn, the saline rush of icy sepsis as if her intestinal contents have turned to some kind of wretched fecal slush –_

 ** _Drip._**

 _"Ron?" she says again, quietly. She reaches out to touch his shoulder._

 _His head detaches from his body with a sticky sound; like the squelch of trying to pry a boot from mud. It tips from his neck and hits the ground wetly, and it sounds like a rotten cabbage being kicked. It rolls toward her, and she cannot breathe as she looks at his face; as she takes in the soft, cornflower blue eyes, glazed over in death; the grotesque parody of a smile that curves on his lips; the discoloration of the tissue around his jaw. A single fly lands repeatedly on his long, freckled nose._

 _Black spots swim in Hermione's vision. Squinting them shut, she screams: a long, ululating, inhuman wail that pierces the eerie silence of the cell that has become a tomb. She pulls at her hair, scratches her fingernails down her face and neck, vomits over and over and over until there is not even bile in her stomach. She howls in grief until her throat becomes swollen and scratchy. She does not know how long she does this – she is lost, adrift in an ocean of anguish and fear and utter heartbreak._

 _Sobbing, she chants his name, reaching out to grab his left hand; she slides his wedding band from his finger, and it clatters to the floor. Pulling the flame down, she searches for it. She finds it in a goopy pool of blood and viscera, and stares at it for a moment, blinking away her stinging tears. The gold of the ring glints brightly from its scarlet bed – a gross perversion of Gryffindor colors. She unclasps the gold chain she wears around her neck and slides it on, shortly followed by her own; it is a chain that cannot be forcibly removed, and she takes satisfaction in the knowledge that it is one less thing that these monsters can take from her._

 _She leans up against the wall and grabs her husband's severed head, pulling it into her lap. The bluebell flame flickers, and then dies. The steady_ _ **drip-drip-drip**_ _of Ginny's blood and the sound of her own rattling breath are the only noises to keep her company. She strokes her hands through Ron's red hair, and closes her eyes. She feels something within her soul fracture, feels her heart break into a million pieces – but her mind, ever so strong and impeccably compartmentalized, slides into numb rationality; even in the face of such carnage, she can always count on her mind to never fail her._

 _But horror lives in the dark; an eerie, unsettling echo that turns the mind upon itself._

 ** _Drip. Drip. Drip._**

 _Later, she hears the sound of clattering footsteps – sees the flare of a torch. Finally. They have come to kill her. She sighs in relief._

 _It is only in the face of Bellatrix's terrible smile that she realizes they have not come to kill her._

 _They've come to play._

* * *

oooo

Tom frantically tried to escape the confines of the memory. He pulled the tendrils of his consciousness back in retreat; the black, oily ropes of her memory followed, latching themselves onto him with insidious intentions, trying to drag him back into the pit of despair that he was so desperate to flee from. He tore through her most previous memory, the one right at the top of her brain –

 _"It's been a very long time since I've been **Imperiused** …"_

 _Rough hands fumbling with her zipper._

 _"I'm sure Tom wouldn't mind if I were to…play a bit…before I bring you to him."_

 _The hot feel of betrayal._

 _"You're just so **fuckable**...even with those ridiculous scars."_

 _Teeth scraping along her neck._

 _"I will hunt you down and spend days killing you…peel the skin from your bones…"_

 _"You know that he's unpredictable at best, monstrous at worst…wouldn't hesitate to kill you in a fit of temper and leave your body out in the woods to rot."_

 _Meaty hands grabbing her breasts, pinching her buttocks._

 _"When Tom gives me permission…going to fuck you hard. On your hands and knees, right where a half-blood bitch like you belongs."_

 _Anger and hatred covering the pearl of fear that is settling in her chest._

The oleaginous strings of her psyche gave one last pull –

Tom vaguely heard himself yell – felt himself stumble backwards – and he finally ripped the damaged vines of his mind from her brain, panting as his vision burst with black spots and his mouth went dry. He felt the telltale weight of something heavier than mucus dribble over his upper lip, tasted the copper of blood in his mouth. His nose was bleeding, and he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

Blinking rapidly, he fought a bout of dizziness, leaning against his couch as the feeling of equilibrium returned. He breathed heavily, his consciousness still aching from the experience of being in her mind. The darkness of her subconscious was hot and oppressive, and he felt the oily stain of the memory he'd been privy to slide around in his brain like hot tar.

He heard low, feminine laughter. Looking up, he watched as Granger put her fingers up to her ear – they came away covered in blood. Her face was streaked with tears, and the vulnerability that shone from her eyes was both addictive and terrible to behold. Despite the raw pain in her eyes, she smiled and brought her gaze up to meet his.

"Sorry," she said with a tremulous smirk. "A bit foggy in there." She paused when he did not respond. "Was it everything you'd dreamed of, Tom Riddle?" she asked mockingly. "Was it everything you'd hoped to see?"

Tom exhaled shakily and glared at her, wiping the blood from his nose. "You…you should not have been able to do that."

She grinned, and it was a cruel thing. "Oh, I would have done much worse if your little bitch here hadn't had me under his Imperius curse," she said, gesturing to Rosier, who looked confused and irate. Edmond still stood in the corner, looking like he would rather be anywhere but there. She tapped her temple. "And I thought I had given you sufficient warning about my trap mind," she said, clucking her tongue in mocking disapproval. "Very sloppy, Tom. Very sloppy."

Tom flushed hot with rage. Forget Occlumency and Legilimency; this…this girl had sucked him into her mind and held him captive there like it was all a game –

His eyes sharpened on her as she closed her eyes and rolled her head around on her neck. The vertebrae there cracked, causing the muscles in Tom's shoulders to jump involuntarily. When she opened her eyes again, she fixed them on Tom. He took a deep breath as he felt her magic permeate the air around them, brushing past him in a dark, teasing caress; there was something frightfully _mean_ about it this time. He could not help the chill that wriggled down his spine. It felt vaguely like a warning.

"You were foolish tonight, Tom," she said softly. "Your ego has led you astray – perhaps you need reminding that you are not, necessarily, the most powerful person in this school." She shrugged. "Perhaps you are. But maybe not. Either way, your arrogance has put you in a very vulnerable position."

Tom swallowed, but glared at her. He pushed his discomfort deep, deep down. "And what position is that, Granger?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"The position of having me for an enemy," she said, her voice suddenly hard and very, very cold.

Avery's words echoed in his ears. _You need to make up your mind…kill her now, or get her on your side. If you hem and haw, she'll rip you apart while you're trying to decide._

He didn't want her for an enemy – he wanted _her._ So, how to diffuse this situation?

He could not tear his eyes away from hers; as such, he was able to pinpoint the exact moment when Rosier's _Imperius_ curse no longer controlled her. Full awareness shone through her eyes, and he stood, mesmerized and anxious, as those beguiling chocolate orbs swirled with shades of violet and cerise.

Then she threw her head back, and her cranium smashed into Rosier's nose at the same time her heel ground down into his toe. The blond howled in pain, and Tom saw the blood that spurted from his face as he stumbled and crashed to the floor. Tom wasn't sure exactly when she had drawn her wand, but both Rosier and Edmond were immobilized within seconds, and Tom barely had the presence of mind to throw up a shield charm as she turned towards him and blasted him with a spell.

He'd been right – she had been feigning mediocrity in the classroom. How laughable it was that he had ever doubted it.

He grunted at the force of her magic. It roiled in the air around them, and inevitably his own magic came rushing out to tangle with hers, a cold front clashing with a hot front to create a storm of epic proportions. Her spell was a continuous red stream that ferociously hammered away at his shield; feeling somewhat panicked, Tom put the full force of his magic behind his _Protego_ and threw her off, breaking the spell that had had him trapped against his couch.

He let out a shaky exhale as she stood across from him, twirling her wand through her fingers with a wicked smile. Her glare was like hot-fired steel. The magic he'd always seen in them had ignited something else, something far more terrifying, which lived within her; something raw and dark and _inhuman_. Its heat was blistering.

And suddenly, he understood why her patronus had changed from an otter to a lion – both were predators, both were graceful and intelligent and beautiful…but lions, and all other big cats, were ferocious in a way that no other creature could ever be. They were at the very top of the food chain, and indiscriminate about what they ate, whether they hunted it down themselves or stole it from another creature. They were the kings and queens of Africa, and had no natural predators. They protected their own, but above all else they were survivors; a lioness would protect and care for her cubs, but if one were irreparably wounded, she would abandon it to die in order to save the others – and save herself. There was something calculating, something cold and terrifyingly savage in a lion's eyes; something that entranced you, froze you in place, struck dumb by its beauty and raw strength – and then it struck and you were dead because you were just too distracted to run.

He was a _fool_. And as she pinned him with that unnerving stare, he knew, for the first time, what fear really felt like.

* * *

oooo

 _Kill him. Kill him. Kill kill kill kill kill_

Hermione's brain wobbled and stretched like kneaded dough. She breathed heavily through her nose, blinking rapidly to rid her eyes of the tears that had gathered there.

 _Kill kill kill KILL KILL **KILL**_

She hissed in irritation, trying to get a handle on her wild, damaged psyche as she stared across the few feet that separated her from Tom Riddle. His face was a mask of ambiguous expressions, but she could see the anger in his eyes, as well as the embarrassment and just a touch of what might have been fear.

Her magic raged inside her body, and Fawkes was burning hotly within her, his presence both soothing and inciting.

 _Don't kill him._

It was her mind's voice, but she felt the phoenix's fire behind the words. She cocked her head curiously.

 _Make him hurt._

Her face split into a wicked smile.

"You've been wanting to duel me for a while, Riddle," she said, her voice icy and calm, even as she felt her fiery magic steal the air from the room. She saw a bead of sweat trickle down his pale, perfect face. He clutched his wand in a tight-knuckled grip. "I promised you I would partner with you in DADA, and I've yet to follow through on that promise." She tapped her wand against her chin. "But why wait until we're faced with the constraints of school and legality? Why not do it right here – you can use all of the spells available to you in your arsenal," she said wickedly, "and I can use mine."

Letting her anger rage, she zapped him with a slicing hex; he blocked it with ease, but did not fight back. Frustrated, she sent two more spells his way and then let Fawkes' fire spring forth from her wand - it almost broke through his _Protego,_ but he was able to surround the stream of fire in a cool ball of his magic and thrust it off to the side until it died.

"Enough," he said sharply. The tone of his voice and the magic that pervaded the room were an abrupt reminder of how powerful he was – and how uncharacteristically mellow he was being. She knew he was angry. He was pissed. But something was keeping him from acting on it. It made her stomach roil uncomfortably; made her clutch her wand in a tighter grip. She saw his jaw tick, and then saw his eyes shift. "I've no interest in dueling you, Hermione."

She frowned. "Why do I find that hard to believe?" she said skeptically. She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Tom."

"Despite your bold words, I am more powerful than you," Tom said, cocking his head. His eyes were still angry, but there was something… _triumphant_ …in his gaze.

He had won, in a way – he had gotten her to expose her magic to him. He had gotten her angry, and he'd uncovered the power within that he'd been so eager to glimpse from the very beginning. He'd seen part of her past: the bleakest memory that lurked in the corners of her brain. He had not gotten what he wanted – unfettered access to her mind – but he had shoved a wedge into the heavy door of her very _being_ , and he was satisfied with it.

He was still afraid of her, though. That in and of itself was a novel concept; she hadn't thought it possible that the great _Lord Voldemort_ could fear another person. She couldn't help the gratification that thrummed beneath her skin.

She narrowed her eyes. "True."

His lips curved. "But you know more than I do."

She smirked in return. The urge to hurt him faded slightly. "Yes. Well spotted."

"So," he said, standing up straight and wiping the sweat from his brow. "What would you say to putting our duel off for a while longer? I'm not entirely sure either of us would actually _win,"_ he finished, scoffing as he said it; as if he couldn't quite believe that he wouldn't be able to win something. Hermione supposed it was a new thing for him.

She sneered. "No, but I would enjoy giving you some scars. Pain, Riddle, is something with which you are not nearly well acquainted enough. You seem ever-so-eager to dish it out," she said, sitting down on the arm of the corner armchair, "but are so reluctant to face it yourself. I'm of the opinion that you should never cast the _Cruciatus_ unless you've suffered under the curse yourself."

Idly, she kicked off her shoes; watched as his eyes flickered down to the newly exposed skin. She crossed her legs, and purposefully put her half-healed scars on display for him to see. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

They were hideous. It was an odd combination: the tan skin of her muscled legs, marred by such nasty scars. It was like if a beautiful gold tapestry had been slashed down the middle, exposing the cold grey stone beneath.

She chuckled. "Perhaps I could give you some scars to match?" she said mockingly. "You seem to be so enchanted by mine. If you want, I'll give you some of your own to stare at."

He clucked his tongue. "I wouldn't be nearly as pretty as I am now with such imperfections, Miss Granger," he said with a smirk.

"And yet you seem to think I'm attractive _despite_ mine," she said, rotating her ankle. "Or…perhaps it's _because_ of mine?" she suggested knowingly. "All of the silly little boys in this school seem to think I'm some sort of catch because I'm _new._ They see the scars and want to trace them with their tongue because they've never done it before. All of the girls they know are all smooth skin and demure smiles and giggles." The smile fell from her face. "Do you know where they made me stay each night, after they'd finished with me?" she asked quietly.

His eyes narrowed. He did not ask – he did not have to. The interest shone blatantly from his eyes.

"They put me back in the same cell, Tom," she answered, shivering with the memory. "For two months, I slept in a cell with three rotting bodies." She swallowed, looking over to the corner where Edmond sat bound in ropes, looking horrified, and where Rosier lay unconscious. When the blond started to stir, she lifted her wand and _Stupefied_ him again. Edmond flinched. Tom did not lift a hand to stop her, just watched her with guarded, heated eyes; even if his wand hand did twitch.

"I watched as rats gnawed on my husband's corpse," she continued in a low voice. "I watched as the sticking charm on his sister's body slowly faded, and little bits of flesh and bone started to drop from the ceiling; her head came last. I watched as flies buzzed around the bloody stumps of my other sister-in-law's legs. She was eight months pregnant, you know," she said conversationally. "It's fascinating to see how small a baby's skeleton is after the flesh rots from its bones."

"Gods, _stop,_ Granger," Edmond blurted from the corner. He looked pained. "I don't know what you're talking about, but that's _sick."_

She gave him a brilliant smile, which she then turned on Tom. "Well look at that, Tom," she said teasingly. "One of your followers has a conscience." She leveled her wand at Edmond. "Would you like me to get rid of him for you?"

Tom's eyes flashed in impatience. "Why don't you just make your point."

"I was covered in blood for the better part of two months, dearest Tom," she said. "Slept in it, ate in it, might as well have bathed in it, if I'd been allowed to bathe." She paused. "It soaked into my skin, dried on it, cracked and flaked off – if it wasn't the blood of my loved ones, it was my own blood. It turns out that having your fingernails pried off…well, fingers bleed a lot, you know?"

"Your point, Hermione," he said through gritted teeth.

She felt Fawkes flare within her at Tom's impatience. Oddly enough, she saw Tom shrink back just ever so slightly. Could he see, she wondered? Could he see the creature she housed within her – see the creature she'd become – shine through her skin? Could he see Fawkes in her wicked smile, in her dark-eyed stare, in her crackling hair?

 _Phoenixes are known for their pure souls, and as such they only choose those with pure souls to house their spirits._

Perhaps Pyotr had been wrong.

She gave Tom a soft smile. "So what do you imagine I _taste_ like, Mister Riddle?" she asked coyly, her voice low. "If one of those boys were to kiss me, run his tongue over my skin – do you imagine he might be able to taste the blood there?" she asked rhetorically. She smirked mockingly. "If he did, do you think he would come back for more? Or do you think he would flinch away in horror, gag – perhaps throw up all over his fancy shoes?"

Tom swallowed. His eyes were obsidian, dark and beautiful and glittering with both desire and rage. Perfect bedfellows, for a man like Tom Riddle.

Hermione stood and moved towards him. He lifted his wand, and she smiled. "What about you, Tom?" she asked quietly, coming to stand so that his wand pressed into her neck. "Would you react the same way?" She paused, mulling it over in her head. She saw his eyes flicker in denial, and triumph surged through her. She cocked her head. "No," she said, answering her own question. "I don't think you would."

His smirk was slow and sinful and devastating.

He drew his wand down her neck, and it rested on her collarbone. "Tell me," he said softly. "Tell me what you desire in return for your…forgiveness." He shrugged. "So to speak."

She felt Fawkes flutter his wings in anticipation. She was silent for a moment, as she considered. She stared into his eyes and drowned in their cool depths. The tip of his wand rested against her neck in what would have been a threatening position, in a normal scenario; instead it felt teasing. A warning of other things, physical things – things far more pleasurable than what he could do to her with a wand; things done in the dark, in the silence of a private room, the only sounds the heaviness of breath and the wet slap of skin against skin and the uninhibited moans that bounce off of eardrums. Things that had been in his eyes since he'd first felt her magic in the hallway just one week ago.

It felt like a promise.

Something swirled in her stomach, something toxic, deadly – an acidic, dreadful kind of longing. It went beyond a somatic ache; it went deeper, slipped into her brain and slithered around her mind like a snake. It was a pulsating, almost painful knot settling like an anchor in the lowest, blackest depths of her body – because Tom fucking Riddle was looking at her _that_ way: like he wanted to turn her around, push her dress off her shoulders, slide her panties down her legs and fuck her over the back of the couch.

Self-loathing settled on her shoulders as she felt the slickness of arousal soak into her knickers.

"Three things," she said slowly, glad that her voice did not betray the unsteadiness of her heartbeat. He nodded slowly, looking intrigued. "The first of which I intend to collect tonight." He cocked his head. She couldn't help the smirk that curved her lips. She glanced over to Rosier's body, which still lay face down on the rug. "I get to do whatever I want to Gavin Rosier, short of unhinging his mind or killing him," she said.

Tom's nostrils flared; his eyebrows drew down and his jaw tightened in anger. His eyes were deadly. "Agreed," he said tersely. "What else?"

She and Fawkes both purred in satisfaction as she realized that his current anger was not directed at her – he had seen glimpses of Rosier's intentions in her mind, and he was furious. Far more furious than she had anticipated. She longed to berate herself for the feeling of achievement that shot through her; but she was far beyond that now.

Draco would cringe if he could see her now – he would also be proud, because she was doing exactly what she had set out to do; exactly what he had _prepared_ her to do.

She just hadn't expected it to be so… _natural._

 _Hermione Granger_ , she thought sarcastically. _Reader of books, inventor of spells, seducer of dark lords. Excellent. Just one more thing to add to your resume._

Of course, it might have had more to do with the blazing chemistry that sparked between them – she doubted it would be this easy with anyone else. Regardless of her hatred for him, she somehow felt…connected to him. It was that feeling you get when you first meet someone you have something in common with – not something normal, like a love for coffee or dog ownership; but something stranger, rarer, like an obsession with the same fandom, or a fascination with the same obscure Amazonian tribe, or the tradition of picking up a magnet in every place you'd traveled to, or the odd habit of talking to your cereal in the morning. Anything, really, that you thought was unique to you, or that at least you'd never met anyone before that you shared something so personal with. It was that feeling of not being alone, of not being embarrassed of quirky habits, of not being a freak.

And it was nice not to have her magical and academic success considered less interesting or impressive than how someone rode a broom.

"You owe me one favor," she said slyly, moving away from him, feeling overwhelmed by the closeness of his body. "One that I can collect on at any time."

His eyes narrowed. "What kind of favor?" he asked cautiously, his voice tight with reluctance.

She shrugged. "Any kind of favor," she answered. "I could ask you to do my Charms homework for the rest of the year," she said casually, "or rub my shoulders, or take me to Hogsmeade." She paused. "I could ask you to scoop out Agricola Malfoy's eyes with a spoon. Or cut off Pollux Black's hands and watch him bleed to death. Or perhaps turn your wand on one of your own – maybe Dolohov – and torture him into insanity before crushing all of the bones in his body." She pointed a finger at him. "I actually know a spell for that, if you're interested."

Tom looked hesitant, but his eyes were greedy. "And what about causing harm to my person? Could you ask me to go pour a bunch of chum into the water and then cast myself into the ocean with the sharks?" he asked sarcastically.

She snorted. "No. I won't ask you to harm yourself. But that brings me to my third condition."

Tom's eyebrows drew down. "I haven't agreed to the second one yet."

Hermione cocked her head. "Then you forfeit your opportunity to 'earn my forgiveness,'" she said mockingly, using her hands as quotations, "and we're back to square one." She lifted her wand and cast a quick _Stupefy_ at him just to prove her point; he deflected it easily, but she saw the fury flash across his face before he was able to school it.

"Fine. What's the third term?" he asked, his eyes hot with anger and the promise of both punishment and sinful pleasure.

"You will be allowed to torture me under the _Cruciatus_ curse for sixty seconds," she said quietly, looking up to meet his eyes. "And you will allow me to torture you in the same manner for twenty."

Tom snorted in skepticism. "Not bloody likely," he said, his eyes going wide with disbelief. It was almost shocking, to hear the casual curse come out of his mouth; it was such a common, crude expression, somehow simpler than the words "fuck" and "damn" and "shit." Somehow less serious. She almost wanted to giggle. It was something that Ron or Harry might have said, light-hearted and teasing.

Hermione shrugged. "I think it's rather unfair that you act to torture your own friends without hesitation, but you don't actually know what it is you're actually doing to them," she said matter-of-factly. "Do you have any idea what being _Crucioed_ feels like?" Before he could answer, she turned to Edmond. "Edmond, darling, would you be a dear and explain what the body goes through while under the torture curse?"

Edmond opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it with a click of his teeth. His eyes darted over to Tom.

"Answer her," Tom said softly.

The slight brunette nodded. "It feels like…" He swallowed. "It feels like your skin is being set on fire. Like every bone is being pulverized. It feels like…" He paused, his skin becoming even paler.

Hermione finished for him. "Like every tendon is being squeezed in a fist, every muscle stretched like a piece of elastic, every ligament chewed on. It feels like your eyes are being skewered with knives, and like your teeth are being yanked out and your gums stabbed with needles, and like your lungs are full of icy water. Many times you end up pissing all over yourself." She frowned. "And all the while you wonder what that wretched noise is – then you realize it's the sound of your own screams." She cocked her head and looked at Tom. "And you inflict this pain almost daily upon the people who are loyal to you. Seems like an unfair reward."

Tom glared at her. "If they screw up, they get punished. They know this. They've known it from the beginning."

Hermione snorted. "The _Cruciatus_ curse is more than just a 'punishment,'" she said with a curl of her lip. "It's the worst pain you could ever wish upon a person. And I think it's only fair for you to understand what it feels like before you go throwing it around like candy at a parade." She pauses. "We would do it in private, of course. No one would have to know. We would _Obliviate_ Edmond," she said, pointing her wand at the slim boy – who almost looked _relieved_ at the prospect, "and you wouldn't lose face with your followers."

He did not answer right away. Suddenly, she knew just what to say to get under his skin.

"All knowledge is good knowledge, Tom," she said quietly. "Even the hard things can be learned from. While there are certain experiences that I wish I hadn't had to go through – you've been privy to one of them – I'm thankful for many of the others. I'm glad I know what it feels like to be _Crucioed_ ," she said genuinely. She smiled. "That way, when I torture others, I know exactly what they are feeling. It makes it much more satisfying."

As she'd suspected, she immediately saw the concession in his eyes. He, like her, couldn't stand the thought of not _knowing_ something. He wanted to know _everything._

"Knowledge is power, after all," she added with a sardonic twist of her lips.

His lips twisted in return.

He looked over to where Rosier lay, facedown in front of Edmond, who was sitting in the corner bound by ropes. "What do you intend to do to Rosier?"

She grinned. "Oh, I have something in mind."

He sat down in the corner armchair and steepled his fingers. She noticed he still kept his wand close at hand; smart. He waved his hand. "Be my guest. My curiosity is eating at me."

She gave him a genuine smile, fixed him with a stare; she saw his nostrils flare and his pupils dilate – at least what pupils she could make out with how dark his eyes were. She walked over to the corner where Edmond and Rosier were. Edmond looked at her with terrified eyes. She flicked her wand to dispel the ropes around him, and then reached down to help him to his feet; after a moment of hesitation, he took her outstretched hand, and she helped him stand up on wobbly legs. She brushed his shoulders off and met his eyes, noticing that he looked more than a little afraid.

"You should learn to control your expressions better," she murmured kindly. "It'll serve you well in the future. Do me a favor, Edmond?"

Edmond looked over at Tom, who nodded with no shortage of amusement.

"Strip Mister Rosier of his trousers and undergarments, please," she asked, turning the hulking boy over onto his back with a flick of her wand. It was more of an order.

Edmond blanched. Tom shifted in his chair, but looked otherwise unfazed – just curious. To Edmond's credit, he only hesitated briefly before doing as she asked, looking uncomfortable all the while.

"Come now, Lestrange," she teased, watching in amusement as he curled his lip and blushed in embarrassment. "You've shared a room with him for almost seven years. I find it hard to believe that you haven't seen his cock."

Merlin, she sounded like Ginny.

Edmond jerked. Tom huffed out a surprised, hoarse laugh; she very purposefully did not look at him, only saw his form peripherally out of her right eye. She waved her hand for Edmond to continue, and he did so reluctantly.

When he was finished, she smiled at him in thanks, and then indicated that he could sit down to watch. He did so, wringing his hands in his lap and looking rapidly between Tom, Rosier, and her. He wet his lips with his tongue several times, a sure sign of nervousness.

She reached down, grabbed the slit of her dress and pulled it up to the top of her stocking – she relished in the sharp intake of breath to her right. Sticking her fingers into her stocking, she pulled out her purple beaded bag; she'd learned to never leave it behind – not since Macnair and Rowle had ambushed her down by the lake. Enlarging it, she pointed her wand into the top and said " _Accio_ Bellatrix's knife."

"Bellatrix," Tom murmured from the corner, watching as the long-handled, wicked looking knife flew into Hermione's hand. "I heard her name in your mind –"

"Yes," she interrupted tersely. "You did." She still did not look at him. If she were to think too hard about it, she would remember that Bellatrix was _his_ follower; the woman who idolized _him_ , would do anything for _him,_ had tortured her every day for two months because she thought it would please _him_ –

But no. She couldn't go there. Now wasn't the right time. Now she had a different revenge to execute, and she needed to focus. She needed to utilize the all-consuming rage that blinded her, stifled her, made her veins feel too narrow, too inadequate to contain the rushing torrent of hot blood that pumped from her heart and streamed through her body.

She put a silencing spell up around the room. She pointed her wand at Rosier. " _Incarcerous._ " Ropes shot from her wand and wrapped around his upper body, keeping his arms pressed against his torso. She smiled.

 _"Rennervate."_

oooo

* * *

 **Sorry to end it here; I figured you guys would rather have more frequent updates with shorter chapters than wait a week and a half for longer chapters. Plus, I thought it was a good place to break it apart.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _He felt something wet and cold slide down his spine. He was still caught up in her wild stare. He looked at this beautiful creature, and wondered how he'd **ever** doubted that she was dangerous._

 **Love you guys!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	22. Chapter 22

**I should have mentioned it before now, but I can't tell you how much it meant to me when so many people, guests and account-holders alike, wrote in with both words of comfort for my recent string of bad luck, and also words of commiseration. I was astounded at how many of you really related to what was going on in my life, and it made me feel loads better, truly. I am also really honored that those people were so open about their own pain, and that they felt comfortable telling me, a complete stranger, about their struggles and hopes and dreams and just their lives in general (regardless of the anonymity of the site; I know it's easier to talk about your shit when you know people don't know who you are, but still). I'm an extrovert by nature, and as much as I enjoy being able to share my life with others, I enjoy it even more when I get to hear about them, whether it's born of a positive or negative situation. I'm so glad that people have reviewed or PMed me about things like this, and it's even better when they say, "I don't usually reach out like this, but your story/author's note really struck a chord with me…" That is extra special, because I have the honor of being one of the few people that they've felt strongly enough about to actually take the time to communicate with me. I just wish that I could PM some of those guest reviewers back, because some of their stories broke my heart and I wanted so badly to just tell them that I hear them, and that I get it, and that I'm sorry that they carry such burdens.**

 **Anyway, I just wanted to share that with you all. I'm really glad that I've become a part of the FanFic community – both for what I receive, and what I am able to give.**

 **A special thanks to Miss Kitty Wonderworld, who has been reviewing like crazy; it makes me happy. Also, I got a review from emmanon, who said something really simple and really great: "This is the absolute best HP time travel fic ever." It really made me so happy to just read that short, simple statement – it's amazing that someone feels that way. Thank you!**

 **Also, I know a lot of you want Hermione to go bat-shit crazy on Rosier and neuter him or carve up his face, but the reality is she can only get away with so much if she wants to remain in school and out of Azkaban. Anything too terribly obvious would get them all in trouble; especially if the Rosier family found out that their heir couldn't have children – not good. So she will definitely cause some serious pain, and there will be scars, but I can't have her just eviscerate him there on the carpet. She's too smart to go too far.**

* * *

oooo

There's a she-wolf in the closet  
Open up and set her free (ahoo)  
There's a she-wolf in the closet  
Let it out so it can breath

S-O-S she is in disguise  
S-O-S she is in disguise  
There's a she-wolf in disguise  
Coming out, coming out, coming out

-"She Wolf" by Shakira

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared. –Niccolo Machiavelli

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if thou gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into thee. –Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

oooo

 _Monday, April 23, 2001_

 _Provence_

 _Hermione sits outside the tent, watching the sun go down; the beauty of it is marred by the sound of breaking glass and frustrated screams as Harry rages inside. Pansy and Draco are picking lavender a few meters away, looking solemn._

 _Finally the noise from inside the tent dies down, and Hermione hears her best friend begin to sob. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, and she waves a hand at Pansy, who immediately hands her bundle of lavender to Draco and walks briskly towards their shelter. She gives Hermione one long, pained stare, and then ducks inside._

 _She immediately hears the hushed murmurs, and then hears one of the beds creak as the two unlikely friends sit down together; Hermione knows at this point that Pansy has her arms wrapped around a crying Harry._

 _Hermione can no longer comfort Harry like she used to. He will sometimes suddenly get upset about Ginny, and Hermione just can't handle the tears, the anger, the sniffling and the low wails and the breaking of the kitchen dishes. When she had tried to comfort him, in the beginning, she'd escaped into her logical maze of a mind – she'd sat and rationalized, and offered solutions, and tried to make things easier using cool intellect, which works for her a lot of the time. But Harry Potter is not a man of cool intellect – he is sensitive, rash, sometimes emotionally unstable, and he doesn't_ _ **want**_ _for her to justify and try to "fix" it. He wants someone to sit and hold him, and to cry with him, and to speak to him in low sympathetic tones and validate his pain. She cannot give that to him without falling apart herself._

 _She hears snippets of murmured conversation through the canvas walls. Finally she hears Harry say, "I'm just glad she died quickly. That she didn't suffer – that none of them did."_

 _Hermione jerks to a standing position, runs behind the tent, and vomits._

* * *

oooo

Tom watched in anticipation as Rosier's eyes popped open when he awakened with a gasp. His bright blue gaze was fixed immediately upon the vengeful goddess that loomed over his body with a cruel, terrifying smile.

"What the hell – "

Tom jolted in his seat when Hermione gave him a swift kick to the face. Her snarl was _petrifying._ He wanted to laugh at the look of utter shock on Rosier's face.

She was beautiful. And terrible.

 _"Crucio."_

The curse burst from her wand in a ferocious stream, winding through the air like a snake to hit her victim in the chest. Rosier's screams were louder than Tom had ever heard them. He writhed on the floor, his back arching up so far that Tom was afraid his spine would break. The sounds that escaped his lips were wretched and awful and _she_ was causing them and Tom so badly wanted to strip the clothes from her body and take her right there on the floor.

She tortured him for three minutes – Tom timed it. When she was finished, she was breathing heavily, a deep, uncommon sort of satisfaction etched onto her features. Rosier was sobbing, his face red and tear-stained and contorted in an expression of pure misery – pain in its most basic form. He'd bitten his lip clean through, and blood poured across his cheeks and dripped onto the rug.

But Tom didn't really mind bloodstains on the rug.

The Gryffindor looked up at him. "Interesting, how people receive pain differently." She cocked her head. "Is he usually this wimpy?"

Tom laughed. "No," he said, his eyes flickering from the woman to her shivering victim and back again. "It seems you have a gift."

Her smile was chilling. There was something slightly mad about it that gave him pause. "I learned from the very best." She crouched down next to Rosier's torso, running her brightly colored wand down his face in a teasing caress. Gavin flinched, shivering and jerking within his bonds. Saliva and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

She whispered the curse again, and Rosier's screams echoed throughout the room a second time; Tom saw Edmond flinch, but gave the boy credit for not letting his fear show too obviously on his face. Torture had never fazed any of his followers much before; they knew what to expect, they anticipated it, they watched each other writhe on the floor under his curse time and time again without showing much concern.

But Hermione Granger turned the torturous Unforgivable into something different. Tom would admit to the burgeoning feelings of both envy and greed; she was better at this, it seemed, and he wanted to know _how_ she did it. He watched as her hand twisted slowly and deliberately, and Rosier arced farther off the ground in a way so masterfully executed one could have only learned it from first-hand experience with someone who'd delighted in the art of such an agonizing spell.

 _Bellatrix,_ he thought, turning the name over and over in his mind. _Curly black hair, wide cheekbones, wicked dark eyes, pretty skin._ Then he remembered her smile, the smile that'd had dread settling deep in Hermione's stomach as she'd sat trapped in that cell. It had been awful, disgusting, her mouth full of rotten teeth and her laugh something out of a horror story.

Then again, he supposed it _was_ a horror story.

When she stopped the curse again, Rosier was heaving; he vomited, and, unfazed, Hermione turned him onto his side so that he didn't choke on it, cleaned up the mess with a swipe of her wand, and laid him back down on his back.

"Pl – please," Rosier said hoarsely. "Please."

"Please what?" Hermione clucked her tongue. "So inarticulate. I'm disappointed. With your impeccable pedigree and fancy pureblooded upbringing, you'd think you'd be more socially adept." She hummed. "Apparently your mother never taught you that rape was wrong, however, so maybe all of the other lessons fell by the wayside as well."

Renewed fury swept through Tom. As a rule, he didn't condone rape – it was one of the few things that his stunted conscience _wasn't_ okay with. He'd turned a blind eye to Rosier's bad habits with the _Imperius_ curse in the past – he'd been busy with other things, and he'd needed Rosier's family connections in order to insert himself into the pureblood community. But now that he already had his foot in the door – most of his leg was in, by now – he no longer really _needed_ Rosier. It was time to put his foot down.

Of course, there was also the issue that Rosier had unwittingly trespassed on what Tom considered _his_ property. He'd not expressly told his Knights that he wanted Granger in his bed and among his possessions; but it was a sort of unspoken rule, one that everyone had conceded to, even Nott. Except Rosier was apparently too thick to catch on, and now he was paying the price.

Tom would admit it was nice to see someone else handling the discipline, for once – sometimes he felt like a single parent, struggling to contain a horde of rowdy, moronic children. It could be quite exhausting. Watching someone else do just as good a job as he did was oddly relieving; like finding a good nanny that somehow kept the children in line, someone with whom he wouldn't have to worry about being responsible and doing an adequate job.

Once again, Avery's sage words whispered in his mind. _She might not be your equal, but she is as close as you'll ever get to having one, at least in your age group._

The prospect of that was both infuriating, and exciting. He was more powerful than the perplexing Gryffindor, that was certain; but her power was _different_ , as strange as she was – there was something uncontrollable about it, something wild and somewhat disturbing. Whereas the magnitude of Tom's magic was kept mostly under wraps and impeccably controlled, hers was scratching at the constraints she put on it, hot and heavy and angry. Very, very angry. She had control over her magic, but there was something deeper, something separate from the base of her magical aura, that felt… _impatient._ Something that wanted to escape, something that wanted to burn freely like open flame; something that very well could be dangerous – Tom just couldn't figure out _why._

Just what was it about her that was so fucking _special?_

She was not conventionally beautiful; if one were to find her likeness in a painting, they would see a slender brunette with wild hair and delicate features, in possession of a slightly wide mouth and a stubborn chin and a smattering of freckles on her pert nose. A reasonably pretty girl, with a pretty face and a pretty smile. But she was not a painting; she was very much _alive,_ and it was this simple fact that made the difference. She became more than just a passably pretty face – her skin glowed with magic, her hair crackled with shards of electricity, her eyes were constantly shifting, burning with an unknown fire that he couldn't begin to place.

It was the way she walked, the way she carried herself with confidence. It was not the arrogant confidence of a woman who had grown up in high-society, who knew she was beautiful and expected the world to fall in line accordingly. In fact, she walked around with her head held high and had no idea how eye-catching she was; she seemed oblivious to her own beauty. But it was deeper than all that – it had nothing to do with physical appearance. It was a sort of inner strength that most people lacked, a faith in her abilities as a witch, and a kind of awareness based in fact that she was _superior_ without the unfortunate side effect of an unhealthy ego. She could do so much, had so much knowledge and power, but she paused to defend bullied first-years in the halls and stooped to helping her obviously inferior classmates with things that she had very clearly mastered a long time ago. She did not hoard her knowledge, or covet her power, and, though she did have a certain know-it-all attitude and sometimes became impatient, she seemed to enjoy sharing her experience with the people around her.

As if the painfully average dolts could possibly _deserve_ it.

The rest of the time, she was shrouded in darkness and a palpable sort of confliction. Despite the initial hot flash of her magic, there was a nasty aspect to it that intrigued Tom. He'd first compared it to a lightning storm over a volcano; but there was more to it than that. Now that he'd been in her mind, even if it was just for a short time, he felt…corrupted. The lava in that volcano was hot and bubbling, and the lightning storm was pure electricity surrounded by an edgy, mysterious darkness – but there was something _deeper_ that lived underneath it all, something black and unctuous and heavy. He would never forget the feeling of having the tendrils of her consciousness clutch at his psyche as he tried desperately to escape. He'd disturbed something deeply unnerving, and he didn't know whether he should regret it or not.

She was certainly eccentric. Mysterious, to be sure. He just could not understand how a person could be two things at once. She was rather lovely to her friends, if at times a bit too blunt – but they'd come to idolize her, flock to her, speak to her about anything and everything that was on their minds. There was a pureness to her, something intrinsically _light_ about her soul that called to people. She softened visibly when she interacted with the younger students, her eyes flashed with injustice when she thought something was dishonorable, and she always smiled when she saw Mallery – _always._ There was a bond between them that spoke of a deep, complicated relationship; one that had developed over a number of years. And when she walked, all eyes followed her, drawn to her self-assured gait and quick, kind smiles.

But then she was the opposite of all that. She was covered in scars, and each one reminded him that this woman had crawled up from the pit of a world so terrible that she was literally the _last one left alive_ , since Mallery was dying. Her experiences were wild and bitter and full of loss and so, _so_ much pain; it hung like a cloud around her person, lighter when she was distracted with her friends and homework and smiles, but oppressive when she walked alone or sat lost in thought, her eyes far away, looking upon a place of shadow and smoke that only she could see.

And then that cloud of dark bitterness and despair would shift, quick as lightning, and wickedness would fill her eyes and drive her magic to the surface of its poorly constructed cage. Sometimes her anger was a palpable _thrum_ that vibrated through her body, underscored with a borderline irrational sort of hatred that ran far deeper than seemed normal. And then she was _not_ the woman full of gentle smiles and encouraging words and pure magic – she was the woman who had _Crucioed_ Mulciber until he'd drooled, and then left his mind warped so that he would always associate her with pain; the woman who had punched a Russian spy in the face and then cursed him to die a slow death; the woman who _knew_ things that she just shouldn't, _couldn't_ know; the woman who was now hovering over a man twice her size, calmly lecturing him on morals and ethics even as she held a knife in one hand and her wand in the other – whose eyes blazed with wrath and pure loathing while her lips bowed into an unsettlingly mild smile.

And he was no closer to knowing her secrets than before. He knew she had been married – he was trying not to think about it, because it caused his skin to prickle in unwanted irritation – and that she had been held captive and brutally tortured for two months, give or take. He knew that he'd seen only one Asian man in that memory, a man who'd walked down the dungeon stairs behind the woman – _Bellatrix._ And when she and Mallery conversed in front of him – which wasn't very often – the names that they occasionally dropped were conspicuously western.

Which was odd, considering that they had apparently lived in China from a young age and had been fighting in a bloody _war_ over there for years.

It was something to consider.

She traced her unusual knife down Rosier's cheek, careful not to cut him. "Do you know what Friedrich Nietzsche said once?" she asked quietly. Tom was not sure if she was talking to him or Gavin. "He said that woman was God's second mistake."

Tom snorted in amusement. "And what about Pythagoras' views?"

Hermione hummed, never taking her eyes off of the subject of her revenge. "'There is a good principle which created order, light, and man, and an evil principle which created chaos, darkness, and woman.'" She cocked her head to one side and then the other. Her lips curved. "Though I rather like the idea behind it," she said, her eyes flickering over to where he sat – his loins stirred restlessly when she spoke, "it's not necessarily accurate, wouldn't you agree? I mean, look at you," she said, gesturing with her knife. "'A good principle that created order and light and man'?" She scoffed, the skepticism written plain across her face. "I think not."

Tom grinned. She smirked, and then turned back to the man she currently knelt beside. She leaned over the blond, and the arcing line of her scarred back gleamed enticingly in the low light of the room. He so longed to run his fingers over her flesh, to feel the silkiness of the unblemished skin compared to the rough ridges of her scars.

 _So what do you imagine I taste like, Mister Riddle? If one of those boys were to kiss me, run his tongue over my skin – do you imagine he might be able to taste the blood there? If he did, do you think he would come back for more? Or do you think he would flinch away in horror, gag – perhaps throw up all over his fancy shoes?_

Suddenly Edmond spoke, pulling at the collar of his dress robes. "You're not going to…"

The question hung heavily in the air. Hermione turned to look at him, smiling. "Castrate him?" she verified. Edmond nodded, wincing. Tom felt his own body jerk in displeasure at the idea. "No, dearest Edmond," she murmured in response. "Although he does deserve it."

Rosier was too delirious to know exactly what they were talking about, but his leg jerked when the cold blade of the knife came to rest flat on his thigh, only inches from his manhood. Hermione seemed completely unfazed by the fact that her hand was so close to a flaccid penis – she did not stare at it (Rosier was not monstrous in size, but he was still above average) and she did not blush and look away. She seemed totally uninterested.

 _She was married, you dolt,_ he scolded. _Of course she's had some experience. She's no blushing virgin._

Still, he'd noticed a certain shyness about her in regards to sexual things – when it related to _him_ , that is. Sometimes she would act brazenly, fix him with heated stares meant to rile him up; but when _he_ was the pursuant, her confidence faded and was replaced with nervousness and a certain measure of false bravado. It was an infuriating process. Titillating, but infuriating just the same.

 _What about you, Tom? Would you react the same way?_

He wondered just how much she knew. How many lovers had she had? What sort of experience did she have in the bedroom?

He took a deep breath and exhaled, coming back to the moment and forcing himself not to think about anything sexual. Just watching her _torturing_ someone was arousing – he didn't need to add fantasies on top of that. He had discarded his robes, and it would be more than a little obvious if he got an erection just sitting there in his trousers.

 _No… I don't think you would._

Sweet Circe, he wanted her.

She pulled the skin of Rosier's right thigh tight, and then leaned down with the knife in her right hand and very carefully made an incision. Rosier shouted out in pain, writhing beneath her as she carved away. She was several feet away from Tom, so in order to see better he stood up from his chair and ambled towards her at a leisurely pace, taking a seat next to Edmond on the couch. The slim, dark-haired boy was openly sweating, though he seemed a lot less bothered by the knife-work than he had been by the _Cruciatus._

Tom leaned forward and watched in rapture as she continued to make little marks on his skin, her hand completely steady, her face deadly calm and focused. Her eyes were back to a less unsettling earthy color, but there were still swirls and flecks of gold and red that glimmered in the mahogany orbs whenever she drew the blade down. The amount of blood that poured forth from Rosier's leg was incredible; it ran in rivulets over his skin, pooled on the carpet around him, and spread across his hips and groin. She used her hand to wipe away some of the red to better see what she was doing…he snorted when he saw what she was carving.

"Rapist?" he said knowingly, raising his eyebrow.

She nodded in confirmation. "Accurate, no?" Her hand came up to scratch an itch on her neck – she didn't seem to care that she left behind a giant smear. "No one is more arrogant and aggressive towards women than the man who questions his own virility," she said quietly. "Although in this case I think that Rosier here is just a terrible person who gets off on the power." She patted his thigh in what would have been a friendly gesture at any other time; this time it just caused Rosier to shriek in pain.

"Though it seems like you're also someone who might get off on power, Hermione," he said slyly, watching as she started to carve the _S._

"Said the pot to the kettle." She smiled, but shook her head. "I get off on the power of giving bad people what they deserve," she purred, looking up at him through those thick lashes. "And rubbing my skill in the face of those who very foolishly assume that they're somehow superior to me. But I've never hurt an innocent. That is one line that I refuse to cross."

"So you have boundaries," he murmured. She was the difference between the definition of a dark wizard, and a wizard who did dark things. She was the latter – Tom considered himself the former.

"Everyone has boundaries, Riddle," she said, touching up some of the letters on Rosier's thigh just to torment him. "Even you."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" he said skeptically. "Just because I have no desire to strike down people in the streets doesn't mean that I wouldn't do so if I felt it was necessary," he said, idly nudging Rosier's ankle with the toe of his shoe. "We talked about this Sunday at Diagon Alley, remember?"

She cleared her throat. "You would never rape a woman."

Tom rolled his eyes. "I would never _need_ to rape a woman, Granger."

She looked up at him then, brushing her bangs out of her eyes, leaving another vermillion streak on her forehead. "That doesn't matter," she said assuredly. "You _wouldn't_ do it, Tom. You wouldn't."

Tom cocked his head. "Perhaps," he said lowly.

She smiled knowingly, and settled back onto her heels; he scowled, because she was right. Completely right. What an annoyingly perspicacious know-it-all.

"All done." She patted Lestrange on the knee familiarly, and left a bloody handprint behind on the forest green material of his dress robes; robes that had probably cost a fortune. The boy swallowed, but said nothing. It was just another way that Hermione Granger could spit on the society that she was so eager to overturn.

She was, he thought, the type of woman who would stand on a metal roof during a thunderstorm and shout, " _The gods are bastards!"_ It was not "Gryffindor bravery," although he suspected she had plenty of that to go around. It was recklessness at its most basic; the wildness of the lioness who chooses to play chicken with a Cape buffalo.

It was thrilling.

She cocked her head, seemingly in thought, and then pushed aside some of the ropes that bound Gavin and pushed up his shirt. She took the knife to his abdomen – just above his left hipbone – and started to carve again, which caused the unfortunate blond to howl anew.

"That's obviously a cursed blade," Edmond commented, licking his lips nervously. "What are the effects?" His eyes were shifty and sharp, swimming with questions and more than a little apprehension.

There was fear there, too. And it wasn't fear of Tom.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wasn't sure how he felt about anything regarding Miss Hermione Granger anymore – she had yanked him from his perch on top of the world, so to speak; but instead of toppling him over, she had grabbed him and was pulling him up and sideways into unfamiliar territory. And all the while she let him keep his crown, seemingly unconcerned with anything but the process of shaking things up a bit. It was less of an "I'm going to ruin you, you bastard" and more of an "If I were to do _this,_ what would happen to _this?_ Let's find out." She was dragging him along with her on raging rapids, whooping and laughing as he rolled his eyes and simply watched her. It was exhausting, and rewarding, and also frustrating; and he still couldn't decide if he wanted to kill her or keep her for himself. He was afraid, at this point, that she was too much of a wild card to have among his possessions – she was too independent, too curious, too freethinking. She would just as soon ruin everything than actually be of any use to him. Her unpredictability made her dangerous; and she was already dangerous regardless of that.

Plus, she had far too much hold over him. She had enchanted him from the very start, and his interest in her had become a serious distraction. She was fire, and the rest of them were moths, lured in by the light and heat.

 _But did moths not burn up when they drew too close to the flame?_

Perhaps the cage around her magic wasn't poorly constructed, as he'd thought before; perhaps it was just too _small._

 _That_ was a terrifying thought.

Was she worth it? Was she worth the danger – the risk that she could upset everything he'd planned? No. Maybe.

Still…he knew himself well enough to know that he could never rest until he uncovered her secrets and her strange power – and until he'd had her in his bed, tasted her skin, found out what she looked like when she fell apart. One of his biggest weaknesses – or strengths, depending on how one looked at it – was his constantly searching mind, his curious nature, the greedy intellect that had him looking too closely at things he most likely shouldn't. She was probably one of those things.

And he wanted her a trillion times more than he'd ever wanted another woman.

His mind whirling, he watched her respond to Edmond's question. "No matter what you do, the marks will scar," she said, her eyes still fixed to Rosier's ridiculous abdominal muscles as she worked. The blond was too tired to even scream at this point; just moaned and whimpered pathetically. "And the wounds it creates have to heal naturally," she continued. "That's why all of the marks I've made tonight have been shallow and non-lethal – nothing would be able to save you if you were stabbed with this knife, magic or no magic." She paused. "The scars won't hold a glamour charm for very long – maybe an hour or two, at most. And, last but not least…" She grinned. "It hurts like hell."

Edmond coughed in acknowledgement, still looking a little uncomfortable. Tom would have to speak to him later, ask him about his thoughts regarding the beguiling witch in the scarlet dress. Edmond was smart, and more observant than most. Tom had also noticed those qualities in Avery of late, and he intended to utilize the younger boy a lot more than he had previously. Now that Ambrose always turned into a pathetic mess when Granger so much as _looked_ at him (God, she was such a fucking _bitch)_ , he was no longer as useful to Tom, at least when it came down to the girl in question. But, for reasons far beyond his understanding, she obviously cared for Avery, and he thought she was rather taken with Lestrange as well. They were both cunning, quick-witted…and dead useful.

 _Clever girl,_ he thought, impressed and amused. _She plays the game well._

Curiously, he wondered what politics were like in China.

Hermione wiped away the blood from her quarry's stomach, and Tom squinted down at the letters she'd carved there.

"T…M…R," he murmured, his eyebrows flying up into his hairline.

She shrugged, looking pleased with herself. "He belongs to you, yes?" she said matter-of-factly. "He's not the most intelligent creature ever – I figured he could use a reminder."

Oh, _shit._ That was…that was…

Fucking _hot._ She'd branded another with his initials, and it was heady and hot and he wanted to pull her into his lap and impale her on his cock.

His jaw nearly dropped when, in a move surprisingly vindictive, she abruptly dug her fingernails into the ravaged skin. Tom almost covered his ears at the terrible, pitiful wail that left Rosier's mouth. She leaned over his bloody face and used her other hand to brush sweaty hair from his forehead. The pearls on her wrist were smeared with blood, gleaming dully in the light; her eyes were like red-hot coal.

"Please," Rosier said, sounding desperate. _"Please,_ stop." He squealed pathetically when her fingers dug into his side even harder; his whole body quaked uncontrollably. "PLEASE!"

She let go, and Rosier trembled with relief. She focused her eyes on his face, and she was so close he had no choice but to meet her gaze. He almost _reeked_ of fear. Her eyes held something terrifying, something slightly mad that had the blond breathing heavily in panic; they were a penetrating red-orange, and Tom longed to feel them on his naked skin.

"If I ever see you trying to take advantage of a woman again – if I so much as hear a _rumor_ that you've raped another girl," she said quietly, "I will tear your intestines out and strangle you with them. Do you understand?" Rosier nodded and made a noise in his throat. "And do you believe me?" He nodded again, tears leaking from his eyes. "Good," she said, patting him on the cheek. "Because trust me when I say I could spend hours with you, Rosier – just you and me – turning you inside out inch by inch. There are things out there that are much more horrifying than the _Cruciatus._ I've spent days holed away with enemies, hours on end spent prying information from lips that they'd chewed off. And I did that because I _had_ too, Gavin. It was important for the war." She exhaled shakily. "With you, it would be because I'd _want_ to."

Something went out of her eyes then – that alarming spark of reddish-orange that was so unnerving – and they returned to a calm and tired brown. Waving her wand, she dispelled the ropes around Rosier, conjured up some bandages for him, applied them easily, and then hit him in the face with a spell that put him to sleep instantly. She healed the fleshy hole in his bottom lip, and then stood. She nudged him with her foot.

Tom stared at her. "That was rather merciful of you," he commented when he was able to speak again. His voice was hoarse with desire.

"I was tired of hearing him moan and groan like a little bitch," she snarled, cleaning the knife and dropping it unceremoniously into her purple bag. She shrunk the beaded purse, and tucked it back into the top of her stocking; his nostrils flared at the show of skin, and he looked away sharply, feeling his control slipping away.

"I'm too old for this shit," she said bluntly, swiping loose hair from her neck. She either didn't realize that she was covered in blood, or she just didn't care – but the image of her like this, dressed so impeccably for a black tie affair, standing tall and proud and beautiful, shoes kicked off, with hands and arms that were soaked in crimson up to the elbow and streaks of blood on her face and neck…

It threatened to undo him; because wasn't she beautiful like this, elemental, almost, like some mythical goddess of old who demanded sacrifice, who destroyed those that dared to cross her. She was more stunning than she had ever been, painted in shades of brown and gold and claret, like an unfinished painting that was just a little chaotic, sort of abstract in style –

Her eyes were dull and tired and full of an aching, overwhelming magnitude of experience and wisdom that he could drown in forever. They were endless depths; a thousand years worth of secrets, a thousand years worth of pain.

"And yet I _still_ don't know how old you actually are," he drawled, looking at her through brand new eyes – for he felt as if he hadn't truly _seen_ her until tonight. Then he wondered if he _still_ hadn't truly seen her. There was more to her, he knew. It teased him with its unattainability, with its mystery.

That impish spark glimmered faintly in her eyes. Her lips curled in a slow smile that had his heart pounding heavily in his chest, the blood in his veins sluggish and thick and _hot._

"Older than you," she replied cryptically. She noticed the decanter of firewhisky on a table in the corner. She helped herself to one of his tumblers and poured herself a finger. She sat down in the corner armchair and smirked at him, crossing her legs and wiggling the toes on her dainty feet. "Head Boy keeping hard liquor on school grounds?" she said teasingly. She clucked her tongue. "I'll have to go right away and tell the headmaster."

Tom grunted. "You simply _must_ stay and finish your drink before you go, of course."

She threw her head back and laughed, and it was high and hoarse and somehow musical, and if he were to bottle and sell pure delight, he would start by harvesting that very laugh. She looked at him again, and her eyes were full of humor. "Oh, of _course."_ She took a long slurp of her whisky; the simple sound was somehow obscene, indecent, and he would be lying if he said that it didn't have his cock twitching in his trousers.

After a moment she stood and swigged down the rest of her firewhisky; it was Ogden's, and he knew she was partial to Blishen's – perhaps he would get that next time. When she set her glass back down on the little table, it was covered in red fingerprints. She waved her wand and most of the blood staining her skin disappeared – but he could still see it in the creases of her elbows and around her cuticles.

"Sorry about your rug," she said, scuffing the brown-and-gold geometric Persian rug with her bare foot. "Blood stains are hard to get out, even with magic." She cocked her head. "I would stay and help, but I've got an early morning tomorrow, so I really need to get some shut-eye," she said, looking anything but remorseful. She looked at Edmond, and pointed at Gavin. "In the morning when he wakes up, he will be in terrible pain. Tell him that icing it works sometimes – and it's going to start itching like hell, but if he scratches it'll slow down the healing process." She looked back at Tom. "I'll leave you to _Obliviate_ Lestrange at your discretion," she said with a wink, "but I think you should leave the juicy bits."

"I'll walk you out," he said tightly, struggling to repress the desire to slam her against the nearest wall and fuck the secrets out of her. Instead he cracked the portrait door, looked both ways down the hallway, and then opened it fully and stepped through.

She smirked, hooked her fingers around the straps of her shoes, and swept out after him. "Bye Edmond!" she said cheerily, waving at the pale boy.

He looked confused by her false cheer. "Granger," he acknowledged with a nod, not standing from his position on the couch. He was paler than usual, and his eyes kept flicking over to Rosier's prone form.

Tom closed the painting behind her, but left it cracked.

"Do you need me to walk you up to Gryffindor Tower, or do you think you can handle getting there yourself?" he asked smartly, sneering at her in jest.

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure I can manage," she replied tersely, a smile lingering around the corners of her mouth. "Besides, I'm not climbing all the way to the seventh floor," she scoffed. "I'll stay with Draco. I don't want to deal with a bunch of squealing girls right now – not while I still have blood on my hands. Literally."

Tom's jaw ticked. He was _not_ angry. He wasn't. "A shorter walk, then," he said lamely.

She nodded, and then looked up into his eyes. "I know you're wondering how I know so much about your family," she said lowly. Tom jerked, and his temper flared. "I have my sources Tom Riddle," she said cryptically, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck. "I've done some digging. I'm not going to go blabbing about it. And I'm not going to bring it up again – if you want to talk about it, then we can talk about it. Otherwise, I'm not going to rub it in your face just to irritate you. And I'm not going to hold my knowledge over your head as blackmail, either." She cocked her head, and a wicked smile curved over her features. "Unless you pull another stunt like you did tonight, in which case any tentative arrangement we agreed upon this evening will be null and void and _I will ruin you._ Even if I ruin myself in the process – you have everything to lose, and I have nothing."

Tom's brain whirred, processing all of what she'd said. His temper threatened to escape, but he reined it in – it wouldn't serve him well at the moment. "Nothing?" he asked quietly, his voice soft and deadly. "Really?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps the friends that I've made here," she said casually, "or maybe my chance to do something to change the world. But there's nothing I wouldn't risk to have my vengeance, Tom."

"Not even Death?" he asked, the word like acid on his tongue.

"Especially not Death," she responded. "Death and I are old friends. I welcome it."

"But you don't wish for it," he said. It was not a question.

She hummed. "No. It would dishonor my friends and family. I have an opportunity to do something good here in England. But if Death comes for me, I won't shy away. I came to terms with it a long time ago." She cleared her throat, looking up into his eyes – there was no small amount of sorrow there, and plenty of pain. "Is this world so kind to us that we should leave it with regret?" she whispered. She clucked her tongue. "On my part, the answer is no. There are far better things ahead than any we leave behind."

He swallowed. "An…interesting view." Incredible discomfort rose from his chest to clog his throat. She was _wrong._ Tom just tried to remember that, while everyone else was aging and dying, he would still be alive. He would watch them go, and relish in the power that he had over Death. Death couldn't _touch_ him.

"Perhaps." She turned away, and then stopped and turned back. "Two more things, before I go. Just so we know where we stand."

"Delightful," he muttered unenthusiastically. He rolled his eyes and sighed in irritation, but motioned for her to go ahead despite his general impatience with her.

"They're very short and simple, don't worry. Firstly," she began, "if you cannot control your little beasts," she said, motioning to the portrait door, "then you will find their body parts strewn around the castle for you to find. A little tip: follow the smell of rotting flesh. It's awful."

He snarled, his anger bucking in the restraints he had placed on it. Insolent little bitch. "You'd do well to remember your boundaries, _Granger._ I've been especially lenient with you tonight, because you are _mine,_ and I thought it was fair that you have your revenge. But – "

She put a finger on his lips, her touch as soft as a butterfly's wings. He went to push it away, his rage mounting with each passing second, but then he noticed how her eyes blazed once more with that unsettling red-orange fire that flashed in her irises and then settled, like dying embers, in her blown pupils. He could not look away.

When she spoke again, her voice was low and deadly serious, her words coated with the power that he so desperately craved. "Secondly," she said, boldly running her hand down his neck to slide under the collar of his partially unbuttoned shirt. Her hand was dry and feverishly warm, and he felt the magic twitch under the skin of her palm. "You'll come to find that I am no one's property, Tom Riddle," she said, her smoldering gaze dropping down to where her fingers ran over his collarbone. "Although I'm flattered by your interest, I am not, and never will be, one of your possessions. I belong to no one but myself. You would do well to remember those words," she continued, "before I engrave them into your bones. You'd do well to take it to heart." She paused, and she suddenly pinched the skin right above his left pectoral. He hissed. "Or I will crack open your ribcage and cut it from your chest."

He felt something wet and cold slide down his spine. He was still caught up in her wild stare. He looked at this beautiful creature, and wondered how he'd _ever_ doubted that she was dangerous.

"You're bluffing," he said, making sure that his insecurity didn't show on his face; she was like a shark, he thought, and if she smelled blood she would hone in on it and use it against him. He reached up and covered her hand with his own, enveloping her fingers with his. He felt her shudder as he slid it down to her wrist and pressed his thumb against her pulse. Her skin was smooth and warm. He desperately wanted to taste it. "Your heartbeat is racing."

She frowned slightly. "You make me nervous."

He blinked. There was that bluntness again – that annoying flash of Gryffindor that never ceased to baffle him. She was admitting to her weakness around him; how…odd.

Then again – what was she telling him that he did not already know?

"Do I?" he murmured, sliding his hand further down her arm – over a series of small ridges in her skin – to wrap around her elbow. He tugged her closer to him; she came with only a little reluctance. With only inches between them, he could smell her; the lavender was from the shampoo and soap she used; the brown sugar was from the sugar quills she was constantly nibbling on; the parchment was from all the books she read and essays she wrote; and the wood smoke only appeared when she was emotional about something – those times when her eyes would flare with mind-boggling colors. He didn't know its origin.

"Did I stutter?" she quipped acidly, looking somewhat testy. He thought that maybe she was becoming prickly to defend herself from both his advances and her own feelings.

"Perhaps I just like to hear you say it," he replied with a wicked smile.

She raised an imperious eyebrow. "Cute," she said sarcastically. "As for whether I'm bluffing or not…" She stood up on her tiptoes, her hand pressing harder into his chest to keep her balance. She hovered her lips next to his ear. "You're certainly welcome to find out."

He froze, his blood pounding in his ears, as she trailed her lips down his jaw. It was not teasing, like it had been in the dark street in Diagon Alley; it was slow and sensual and soft and it left him trembling like a bloody virgin. Then she pulled back from him and turned to leave; black spots swimming in his vision, his hand shot out, wrapped around her stomach, and jerked her backwards so that the long line of his body was pressed against her back.

He brought his face down to the bare crook of her neck, scraping his teeth along the sensitive skin there. He huffed out a laugh as her breath hitched.

"Aren't you getting sick of threatening me, Hermione?" he murmured against her ear. "I'm starting to believe that it's all you know how to do." She jolted as his hand slid lower on her midriff, resting just below her navel. Both her hands gripped at his forearm, neither pushing him away or bringing him closer, one still with two shoes dangling over her fingers; it was like she was frozen, unable to move but needing something to do with her hands to maintain the illusion of control. He pulled her harder against him, and she made a soft, strangled noise in her throat when she felt the rigid outline of the erection that had been waiting to escape all night.

He exhaled heavily into her neck and ran his free hand down her side to her hip; his fingers squeezed the supple flesh there, almost bruising, and the noise that escaped her throat was enthralling and electrifying and it wound through his ear and lodged itself firmly in his mind.

"Besides," he breathed into her ear, "all of this 'will-you, won't-you' is driving me mad," he admitted. "You're a tease, Granger," he finished, "but I think you've forgotten that, eventually, you'll have to follow through."

He took her flesh between his teeth one last time, and then, regretfully, let her go, his hands sliding over the warm, ridged flesh of her back as she jerked herself away.

She spun around to look at him – her eyes were wild and dark and afraid and burning with a desire that she was desperately trying to stifle. He smirked. "You were the most stunning woman at the party tonight," he said silkily, taking a step forward and watching in satisfaction as her foot quivered but did not move; she was frozen, captured in his snare, and she could not step backwards or look away. "But I thought you looked especially striking when you were covered in blood." He reached out and lifted her hand up, kissing the backs of her fingers. "Red gloves, to match your red dress."

She swallowed. Her eyelids fluttered, and the spell broke, and then she was ripping her hand from his and stepping back several paces. He did not pursue her; he'd made his point, and felt no need to take it further – not now that she was looking like a startled deer.

She cleared her throat, like she was going to say something; then, with burning cheeks, she turned and fled.

* * *

oooo

Pollux Black sat stiffly on the sofa in Agricola's study. His old ally was leaning heavily against the fireplace, drinking brandy.

"They need to be eliminated – "

Pollux interrupted him. "Let's not be hasty, Malfoy."

The man in question turned to look at him, his cerulean eyes narrowed in a glare. "What, you think they could be _useful?"_

Pollux snapped his fingers, and one of Malfoy's personal elves popped into the room. He pointed at the decanter of brandy in the corner; the little beast immediately poured him a glass, and handed it to Pollux with a deep bow. When it was not given any further demands, it apparated away.

"If they can't be cultivated, then they can at least be neutralized," he drawled, sipping at his drink. "But I think collecting them is worth a try."

Malfoy shook his head. "The girl has made her opinions on things quite clear; and the boy will follow her to the grave. As soon as she graduates, she'll be offered a job at the Ministry and she'll start to disrupt things."

"I'll make sure she won't get offered a job," Black said. "If it comes to that; if she can't be swayed."

Agricola snorted. "You underestimate Dumbledore's influence," he said bitterly. "And Slughorn has practically proclaimed her as his daughter, and you know how he and Spencer-Moon get on. Even the two of us working together can't overturn an executive order from the Minister."

Pollux shrugged. "So we work with it. We block any movement she makes, get the Wizengamot to shoot down any proposals she comes up with. She'll get so tired of it that she'll eventually give up."

"We could find a way to get people to turn against her," Malfoy suggested quietly.

"You mean personally?" Pollux verified. "You want to frame her for something? Ruin her image?"

"Perhaps," Agricola said with a curve of his lips. "Right now she has half the student body and all of the teachers wrapped around her finger. She's charming, and different, and she's gotten their attention. She's also been kind to everyone – with certain exceptions – and she's effectively crossed ancient boundaries in the Hogwarts housing system in a matter of _days._ If we can ruin that, reverse what she's done, turn the students against her and each other – things could get ugly, and she would be right at the center of it."

Black cocked his head in interest. "Who are the exceptions you speak of?"

"Tom Riddle, for one," Agricola said with a snort.

Pollux shook his head. "He's fascinated with her. I doubt she'll be able to sway him from his path, but still – he's young, and she's a pretty girl."

"Could he be convinced to attempt to change her mind about certain issues?"

"Oh, without a doubt," he replied. "I believe he's already trying to collect her. Out of anyone, he is the most likely to be successful."

"Push him on it," Malfoy said.

Pollux raised an eyebrow. "One does not simply 'push' Tom Riddle, Agricola. Surely you know this by now."

"Then he is just as dangerous as she is," the blond replied, staring into the fire with hard eyes.

"He is _more_ dangerous than she is," Black corrected. "But his views and intentions align with ours. Hers do not. That makes all the difference."

Malfoy hummed. "What about the rest of the students? Who else has she alienated?"

"Not many," Pollux admitted reluctantly. "Druella Rosier. Gavin as well, but he's so far under Riddle's thumb that he probably won't act on it; but it's still worth looking into. The Flint boy hates her. Cygnus doesn't like her simply because Druella doesn't like her – and because she's a Gryffindor. Primrose Selwyn doesn't like her because she idolizes Druella, but apparently Granger has been very kind to her, and it's starting to throw her off balance. Alphard thinks this whole process is hilarious – he's amused by what she's trying to do. He'd be as helpful as a bloody plant," he snarled, thinking of his eldest son.

"What about Antonin Dolohov?" Malfoy suggested.

Pollux hummed. "He's a wild card; he might be useful if he thought we could upset her hold over the students and get her away from Riddle without it leading back to him."

"And the Greengrass girls?" Agricola asked, rubbing at his chin.

"Violet has expressed interest in getting to know Granger and joining this little 'inter-house unity' thing," he said with disdain. "Camellia is too young – and her head is full of air."

"And, disregarding Riddle's influence, what about the other seventh year Slytherin boys?"

Pollux ran his fingers over his beard. "Thoros Nott thinks with what's below his belt; but he knows that Riddle has all but claimed her as his, and he won't go there. Otherwise, I think he's fairly indifferent; but I think he does respect her, regardless of her gender." He paused. "She's already charmed Lestrange. He's clever, and ultimately looks out for himself, but I'm not sure he wouldn't go straight to her and Riddle and start blabbing. It's not worth the risk." He looked up and caught Malfoy's eyes. "I watched Ambrose Mulciber tonight," he said softly. "I was…disturbed."

Agricola frowned. "I didn't know he'd interacted with her at all."

"It was brief," he said. "But even for the rest of the night, his eyes would flick over to her _constantly_. And when he did eventually come face to face with him, Nott very quickly ushered him from the room and took him back to the Slytherin dorm."

Malfoy's brows drew down in consternation. "That's…odd." He frowned. "Would Gavin be willing to talk to you about it?"

He nodded, thinking about the dense blond. "If he knows, I'll get it out of him. He might be under Riddle's thumb, but he's not smart enough to know what secrets to keep. I can wring it out of him; or perhaps get him to tell one of my sons." He paused. "What do you know of the Avery boy?"

Malfoy snorted. "No one knows anything about Conan Avery, Black. He's inconsequential."

Black was not so sure. Tom Riddle did not induct people into his little group without a reason; but he kept quiet. He would look into it. Malfoy was sometimes rash and didn't think things through – and once he'd made his mind up about something, it was hard to get him to see otherwise. It wasn't worth the argument.

He sighed, and stood. "I need to go home before my wife throws a small rebellion," he said, thinking of his nagging spouse. But, she was the mother of his children, and he'd come to care for her in his own way. "We need more information before we act on anything," he warned Malfoy. "I'll get in touch with a few of the students, put some feelers out."

Malfoy grunted in acknowledgement. "I'll see if my son knows anything of consequence, and put more pressure on my allies in the Ministry to try to get more information on her – on them both. She mentioned Gringotts, tonight – I know a curse-breaker who works for the bank, I'll see what I can find out." He paused, his blue eyes intense. "But we can't wait too long, Black. With each passing second that girl sinks her talons further into this society. If she's accomplished this much in the span of three weeks, I would hate to see what she might do with three months. Or three years. We need to get ahead of this." He downed the rest of his drink. "Woman or not – she is frighteningly productive. It needs to be contained."

Pollux nodded in agreement. He flooed to his own home, brushing soot off his robes as he considered the odd pair that had caused such a splash. He tried not to think about the tingling feel of magic that had slid across his skin when Granger had entered the room tonight; or the way Mallery's eyes had chilled him to the core. They were fire and ice.

He had never doubted himself before, especially when he and Malfoy worked together; but as he hung his cloak up and trudged up the stairs, he wondered, for the first time, if they would be successful. Something stirred in his gut. It felt like discomfort and uncertainty. When he went to bed that evening, he laid awake next to his sleeping wife for hours, replaying his interaction with the infuriating students over and over again in his head.

 _I had to…dispose of her._

 _War is a fast and bitter teacher._

 _It was a great pleasure to meet all of you – I feel sure we'll meet again soon._

Pollux finally slipped into troubled sleep, dreaming of fire and ice and a pair of haunting brown eyes.

* * *

oooo

Hermione walked briskly down the hallway, shoes in hand, tears clinging to her eyelashes. Her heart was beating a hundred times a minute, and she clutched her wand in her hand, taking comfort in the smoothness of it, the security it gave her.

Fawkes was raging inside of her, as restless as he'd ever been. She couldn't make out his feelings about what had just happened with Tom. In fact, she couldn't make out her _own_ feelings about what had just happened with Tom.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck_

Sharp, unfamiliar tremors shook restlessly within her nervous system. Her mind was swimming, rolling around in mud and desperately trying to right itself again. She thought about the terrifying magnitude of his mind as he'd tried to pry into hers; she thought about the way he'd looked at her when she'd been covered in the blood of his minion; she thought about the way he'd so effortlessly possessed her body, curling a large hand around her waist and yanking her back into a firm chest and taut abdomen.

She thought about what she'd felt pressing into her arse –

She shuddered, steadying herself against the wall as the memory flushed through her body. Her underwear were useless, sticking wetly to her mound and the inside of her thighs.

Anger and hatred and shame rose in her chest – not for Riddle, but for herself. She'd never felt this way for another human being – never felt the intense, slow-burning coil of fire that was settling heavily in the pit of her stomach, the instant gush of arousal in her womb when he just _looked_ at her a certain way. Not for Ron, not for Draco; not for either of the men she _loved –_ but for the man she hated most in the world.

The world's cruelty still somehow managed to surprise her, even after all these years.

But it would be worth it, wouldn't it? Worth all of it – the shame and self-loathing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't _he?_ If he could make her body thrum with just a brush of his lips against her skin, then he could make it _sing_ – and it would be good; it would _feel_ good. Better than good.

Her bad wolf was panting eagerly, wound up by all of the excitement of tonight, the evil that she had unleashed into the world. Violence, no matter how justified it seemed, was not good; combining violence with sex was even worse. Her good wolf was lying unconscious in the corner.

She remembered the hitch of his breath that had come when she'd so brazenly slid her hand underneath the flap of his shirt; remembered the smooth skin there, warm to touch but still nothing compared to the dry heat of the phoenix inside her. She remembered her shudder as his teeth had scraped over her skin, his hot breath tickling her neck as he'd whispered in her ear. She remembered her inability to do anything, to move or protest or speak or even reach for her wand. She'd only been able to steady herself by gripping his arm, which was muscled and pale and lightly dusted with dark hair and utterly distracting. _Everything_ about him was entrancing, enthralling, addictive: the depth of his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders, the turn of his wrists, the ivory of his skin. Forget vampires – Tom Marvolo Riddle had been designed with seduction in mind…every inch of him.

She stumbled to the painting that hid Draco's quarters – ironically enough a picture of a pride of lions – and burst in.

In retrospect, it probably would have been a good idea to knock, or at least announce her presence a little more subtly. As it was, she came face to face with a wand that almost touched her eyeball.

"It's me, Draco," she said breathily, putting her hand on his arm and pushing it away slowly. She snapped her fingers and a torch flared to life. His eyes were wide and pale and hot, and she knew she'd woken him from a dream.

She was lucky to be alive.

He took a couple of heaving breaths, his bare chest rising up and down, especially pale in the low light of the room. He blinked, and his eyes darkened and honed in on her.

"What happened?" he said immediately, taking her face in his hands and turning it from side to side to assess her. "You're bleeding from your ear," he said worriedly, his voice hoarse with sleep. "And you've been crying," he added, swiping away tears from her cheeks.

She nodded silently, and then just leaned forward and laid her forehead against his chest. He sighed, and he laid a hand on the back of her neck. He just let her stand there for a moment, breathing in the smell of his skin, letting most of the hysteria fade away in the warmth of his presence. Fawkes settled within her, still burning brightly but contained within her ribcage.

"I need to use your bath," she said quietly, finally pulling away from him. She sniffed, rubbing at her eyes with fingers that still smelled like blood. "I…I feel dirty."

Malfoy wordlessly stepped back from her and walked towards the bathroom; she noticed that his limp was worse – he'd sucked up the pain and had danced with her this evening, and it had set him back. She felt foolish…selfish.

She followed, and sat down on the toilet as he drew her a bath. She shivered suddenly, and Fawkes' warmth – gentler now, mellower, less frantic, less angry – spread through her body at a leisurely pace, calm and mild and comforting. She put her hands behind her back and fumbled with her zipper.

"What happened, Hermione?" he asked quietly, crouching down and leaning over to test the temperature of the water. He looked up at her with questioning eyes.

Her hands shook and she continued to fumble with her zipper. "I…" Her voice quivered. "I just – I can't – "

She swore viciously and ripped the dress violently from her body, her magic streaming out from her fingers and burning the fabric as she tore at the seams. She felt trapped. She was trapped, she couldn't get away, she was _fucking_ _trapped_ and –

"Hermione stop, stop – _stop_ ," Draco ordered, pulling her hands away and helping her strip the ruined dress the rest of the way off. She did not have the presence of mind to be modest – he had already seen her naked anyway, so what did it matter? He was her best friend. She loved him. He loved her. She was safe with him.

Her hands shook as she tried to unclip her garters – he once again cradled her wrists in his and held them for a moment before letting them fall to her sides and doing the job himself. He pulled his mother's comb from her hair, the earrings from her ears, took the bracelet from her wrist – if he noticed the blood that clung to a few of the pearls, he did not comment. Numb, she let him undress her the rest of the way, and then he hooked his arms under her knees and around her back and lifted her effortlessly into the tub, settling her down in the warm water.

She drew her knees up to her chest and let her head rest on them for a few minutes. Draco said nothing, just sat on the floor next to the tub and trailed his hand idly through the water, making it swirl and eddy with the movement.

"You need to tell me what happened, Granger," he finally said, wrapping a hand around her unblemished left shin and swiping his thumb over the skin soothingly. "I can't help you if you keeps things from me. We're in this together, remember?"

She nodded. New tears began to run down her cheeks; Merlin, she was tired of tears, tired of how stuffy her nose got, tired of the roughness of her throat and the inevitable headache that came afterwards. She looked down at her hands, and began to wash them clean in the water, scrubbing around her cuticles and beneath her nails.

No matter how hard she scrubbed, though, she would never wash the blood from her hands. They would never be clean again; they hadn't been clean for a long time now. They would never regain their former innocence.

She sniffed. "Riddle – and Rosier, he was – we – I – "

"Slow down, Granger," he said, bringing his hand up to trace the trail of dried blood that ran from her ear to her neck. "Just breathe."

She closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Then, in a shaky, hoarse voice, she told him what had happened.

She took his hand when she was finished; squeezed it gently. "You can't do anything, Draco," she said quietly.

"I never should have left you alone," he said through clenched teeth. His eyes were pale and hot and livid.

"You would have collapsed if you'd stayed," she said with a shake of her head. "I shouldn't have had so much to drink." She sighed. "But I already got my revenge on Rosier. You can't go on a rampage and try to accost Riddle in the halls. He'll kill you. He'll use it as an excuse to get you out of the way."

"He's been waiting with baited breath for me to die," he said with narrowed eyes. "Salivating over the idea of having unfettered access to you. I've seen it in his face."

The comment both thrilled her and scared her. It also made her sad. "You're not going to die, Draco," she whispered. "We're going to figure it out."

He grunted, but did not respond. She knew it was because he didn't want to bring her down any further than she already was.

"What memory did he see, Hermione?" he asked quietly. "What does he know?"

"Nothing that is indicative of the truth of our origins," she said firmly. "It's fine."

He exhaled shakily through his nose, his nostrils flaring. "You've never kept anything from me, Granger," he said sharply. "Don't start now."

She sobbed suddenly. "But I _have_ kept things from you, Draco!" she said desperately. "I've never…" She swallowed, feeling the dreaded words burgeoning up through her chest to vibrate against her vocal chords. "I've never told the truth about Ron's death."

Draco shook his head, looking confused. "You said they were all killed with the killing curse soon after you got to the Manor." He swallowed uncomfortably. "Seamus, Fleur, Ginny, Ron. You said – "

"I know what I said!" she exclaimed harshly. "I lied!"

He was silent for a moment. She could not meet his eyes, ashamed. "I'm not angry," he said at last. "I just want to know why."

She nodded jerkily. "I – I need you to see, I think," she said, her voice trembling. "I need you to _know,_ I don't want to be the only one to carry it anymore, Draco – it's so heavy. It's – it's such a _burden._ And I'm so tired, so tired of being alone, of being the strong one, the one that's been lying to everyone for _years_ just to spare them the pain – I can't handle it anymore. And now that Riddle knows it just makes it worse, makes it even heavier, because I don't _trust_ him, _can't_ trust him, and he's awful, and I don't want him to be the only one who's seen it. He doesn't deserve my secrets; and he doesn't understand pain, and sorrow – not the same as the rest of us, at least." She inhaled sharply. "I just…I want you to see. It's right there at the top of my mind – he fell into it and dragged it back up on his way out – and I don't want to hold on to it by myself. I need to lighten the load before I shove it back down to the dark prison I created for it."

His eyes were soft and warm – so unusual for someone who had perfected the art of the perpetually cold stare. He nodded. "Let me see, Hermione."

She leaned forward, and he took her head in his hands. She nodded quickly, and looked into his eyes.

" _Legilimens."_

She jerked as, for the second time that night, she relived her worst nightmare.

She showed him everything – from the very beginning, from their capture to Seamus' death to the hours of torture they had all been subjected to. Then she had been knocked unconscious, and the next time she'd woken she had been in the cell.

When it was over, he sat back and leaned against the base of the toilet. They were both silent for a few minutes, before he spoke.

"And Potter never knew – "

"No," she said quickly. "I couldn't tell him. It was my burden to bear – I was the one that was there, I was the one that had witnessed it…why did anyone else need to know? It would only cause them pain."

"But _you_ were in pain, Hermione!" he said, throwing his hands up. "What about _you?_ You carried those memories all by yourself for _years_ – you could have told me," he said hastily, angrily. "You know it wasn't as personal for me. I felt their loss like everybody else, but you've always been the only person that ever _truly_ mattered to me, besides Pansy and my mum." The truth of the statement hung heavy in the air. "I would have helped you carry it," he finished, his voice breaking tragically.

"I wanted to tell you so many times," she whispered, staring down at her hands as she soaked them in the water. "But as time passed, it just became easier to keep burying it. There were other memories that I could pile on top. It's always hung there, in the very back corner – I've never forgotten. It is a recurring nightmare – every other day it makes an appearance in my sleep."

"Why didn't you take it out, bottle it up?" he asked. "It wouldn't have gotten rid of it, but it would have helped alleviate the stress of having it so deeply entrenched in your brain. It would have helped with the nightmares."

She swallowed. "I thought about it." She looked at him. "But it keeps the hatred strong, keeps the rage relative. It helps drive me, keep me motivated. It keeps me anchored. It keeps me _angry_ , Draco."

"It keeps you _crazy_ , Granger," he denied with a shake of his head. "It keeps you entrenched in the past, unable to let go, ready to explode at the drop of a hat. It doesn't ground you, Hermione," he said sadly, "it drowns you."

She did not respond. It seemed he did not expect her to, just assisted her in finishing her bath and drying off and dressing in one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. Then he helped her to climb into bed, and slipped in after her, lying on his side as she sprawled out on her back.

He did not hold her as he usually did; she was grateful for the space. He merely put a warm hand on her stomach, and they both drifted off to sleep together.

oooo

* * *

 **A snippet from the next chapter (which might be a week and a half in coming, because of work-related reasons – sorry):**

 _She was the perfect trap, for a boy like Tom Riddle – the noose that he would step into, oblivious until it began to tighten around his neck; but at that point it would be too late._

 **Thank you for reading! You guys are fantastic. I can't believe I have over 600 reviews! That is** _ **amazing.**_ **Thank you thank you thank you.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	23. Chapter 23

**Just to let you know, my update schedule for this fic will be a little slower from here on out. Like every 2-3 weeks. Sorry. There's just a lot going on right now, and I'm about to travel for a few days and won't have very much opportunity to write.**

 **Today my shout out goes to CrystalViolet, who has been dropping reviews in the box like crazy and makes me smile with each one. She's great. :)**

 **Also, I had someone send me a PM a long time ago for one of my other stories, and I'm just writing to discourage anybody else from dropping another one of these awkward propositions into my inbox… This person wanted my two characters to have a daughter (despite one of them being a vampire, and therefore infertile – and this is Vampire Diaries, y'all, not that Twilight shit), and that she would be born of a prophecy and have purple eyes and a bunch of other hokey stuff involving a curse and a witch… Anyway, she then suggested a name.**

 **Tayzia Chadeaux.**

 **No, I'm not kidding, and yes, I made the same face you are making right now.**

 **So please, let's stop while we're ahead: Hermione and Tom aren't going to have some miracle child born with red eyes and phoenix feathers with some dumbass name like Phoenix Mystique or some shit like that. No. We're not going there.**

 **Just thought I would make my point before anyone got any ideas. Anyways, on with the show.**

* * *

oooo

O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention. –William Shakespeare

There is no longer a way out of our present situation except by forging a road toward our objective, violently and by force, over a sea of blood and under a horizon blazing with fire. –Gamal Abdel Nasser

If everyone cared and nobody cried  
If everyone loved and nobody lied  
If everyone shared and swallowed their pride  
Then we'd see the day when nobody died  
And I'm singing  
Amen I, Amen I, Amen I, I'm alive  
Amen I, Amen I, Amen I, I'm alive  
-"If Everyone Cared" by Nickelback

* * *

oooo

Draco paced in the hallway, twirling his cane around and tapping it on the floor restlessly.

"Draco."

He looked up, and sighed. Hermione was looking at him tiredly. The dark circles under eyes were terrible – he doubted his looked much better. Her shower had given her some color, but otherwise she was pale and drawn and looked exhausted.

"Sorry," he said quietly. He leaned up against the wall. "I'm just restless."

"Me too," she replied. She leaned beside him, and rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm anxious to get to Morocco."

He turned his head and sniffed her hair, drawing in the scent of lavender that never failed to soothe his nerves. After last night, he was jittery and on edge. The memory she'd showed him had firmly lodged itself in his brain and seemed determined to torment him with her suffering. Add that to the anger he felt towards Rosier and Riddle, and he was ready to snap.

He grunted. "Dumbledore is late." He exhaled. "Dumbledore is _never_ late."

As if on cue, the Deputy Headmaster appeared around the corner, walking briskly. He looked as he usually did, in magenta robes and a matching hat, but Draco noticed that the skin around his eyes was unusually tight.

"Good morning," the older man said cheerily, approaching them with a smile. As he got closer, his eyebrows drew down into a frown and he looked between the two of them. "Or perhaps not?" he ventured. "The two of you look like you have seen better days. Did the party keep you up late last night?"

Draco and Hermione shared a look. "Or something like that," he said dryly. He looked at his former headmaster; the man that he'd half-heartedly tried to kill, once upon a time. "And no offense, Professor, but you don't look like you're at a hundred percent, either."

Albus gave him a tight smile. "An astute observation, Mister Mallery," he said in a tired voice. "Grindelwald attacked Oslo late last night. The death count is currently four-hundred and counting, both wizards and muggles alike."

Draco jerked. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth. "That's awful!" she said in a whispered voice.

Dumbledore nodded. "It is. If you don't mind, I think it would be a good idea to get into the Room before I divulge any more."

They both nodded and stepped aside as Dumbledore paced in front of the room three times and a door appeared. He opened it, and they all filed in. The Room had taken the shape of a long, white room with targets that lined the walls. Interesting.

"I judge from your reaction that this attack does not occur in your timeline?" Dumbledore said as he closed the door.

Draco shook his head, sitting down as the Room of Requirement conjured one for him on request. "Grindelwald's campaign never got to Norway," he said softly, feeling discomfort and dread wrap around his throat like a fist. "Some thought he skirted most of Scandinavia because of nostalgia pertaining to his schooling."

Dumbledore frowned. "Gellert hated Durmstrang. They kicked him out, remember?"

Hermione huffed out a laugh. "Kicked out of a school that teaches Dark magic for doing _worse_ Dark magic."

Albus' lips twisted into a grimace. "That should have been my first clue."

Hermione shrugged. "We were all young and foolish once, Albus."

Draco snorted out a laugh, and looked over at his best friend with an incredulous smile. _"Once?"_ he asked skeptically. "You're _still_ foolish, Granger."

Color rose on her cheeks, and he knew she was thinking about last night's fiasco. "Yes, well," she said with a prim cough. "You are, as usual, right. Which is why I got sucked into a very interesting conversation with a pair of vampires last night."

Draco choked on a breath. He coughed, and Albus reached over to pat him on the back.

"So I take it you met Pyotr and his lovely sister Katarina then?" Dumbledore said with a smile. "I'd hoped you would get a chance to speak with them."

Draco sucked in an angry breath. _"Vampires,_ Hermione?" he asked, feeling incredulity and ire rise in his chest. "Can I truly not leave you alone for even a _moment_ without you seeking out the most dangerous people in the room? _Merlin."_

She flushed, and he saw her eyes flash. "Pyotr and Katarina were _quite_ charming, Draco, and Albus wouldn't have convinced Slughorn to invite them if he didn't think they were safe. Right, Professor?" she finished, looking at Dumbledore with a cheeky smile. He cleared his throat, looking guilty. "Besides," she added, glancing back to Draco, "if you recall, I believe I had a very similar accusation to make regarding one Nalani Ka'aukai –"

" _Fine,"_ he snarled, cutting her off as soon as she brought up the Hawaiian beauty that he'd gotten involved with a couple of years ago. The sex had been worth the danger. "But your accusations turned out to be baseless, Granger," he said through clenched teeth. "She was a valuable ally. A friend. It's not the same thing as approaching _two_ strange vampires at a party in an _alternate universe_ where you are already calling far too much attention to yourself. Now you're adding another species to the mix." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Whatever," he mumbled in surrender. "You're going to do whatever you want regardless of what I have to say about it."

Hermione cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable. "If it's any consolation, I _did_ ask myself the question 'what would Draco Malfoy do?' before I made any decisions regarding them."

Draco blinked at her. "Decisions?"

She looked shifty. "Yes, well, in order to get them to keep my… _condition_ …quiet, I needed to give them something in return."

Draco sat forward in his chair. "What did you give them, Hermione?" he asked lowly, feeling his stomach churn.

She shrugged, looking sheepish. "I may have agreed to give them a pint of my blood," she said with a wince.

His eyes went wide. "You _WHAT?"_

Dumbledore shifted on his feet, and then the Room gave him his own chair. As he sat, he grimaced. "Perhaps I should have made an effort to be there myself."

Draco glared at him. "Yes, perhaps you _should_ have, Professor."

Dumbledore held up a placating hand. "As much as I would urge caution on _anyone_ who chooses to interact with vampires, I can assure you that Katarina and her brother are both wise and trustworthy. They won't misuse such a gift, and they won't go back on their word. I anticipate that they would like some of Hermione's blood for research, exclusively. I'm not worried. Nor should you be." He looked at Hermione over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "However, you are lucky that you came into contact with those particular vampires last night, Hermione – anyone else, and I most assuredly _would_ be worried. Perhaps next time you will be more discerning."

Hermione swallowed. "Yes, sir," she said quietly, looking down at her toes. She cleared her throat. "Erm, so, they – they mentioned something…something pertaining to my…condition."

Draco's eyebrows flew up. "What do they know?"

"It's called hybridization," she said uncomfortably. "When two existing species merge after birth." She looked at Dumbledore. "Have you ever heard of it?"

The Transfiguration professor frowned. "No. I confess I have not." He looked troubled.

She hummed, and then explained it to them.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. "This is…interesting. Very interesting. I think I will send a letter to Katarina, see if she'd be willing to meet me one evening to discuss such things."

Draco sat back in his chair, his mind whirring. A hybrid? He frowned. He liked to consider himself a fairly well read individual – perhaps just as well read as Hermione herself. The fact that neither of them had ever heard of it – not to mention _Albus Dumbledore_ – seemed highly unlikely. Where would one go about finding a book on something like that?

Before he could speak, Hermione beat him to it. "I was thinking – tomorrow, while Draco is with Mister Barenbolm, I thought I might pop on over to the library at Alexandria and do some digging."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "As far as I am aware, the Wizarding Library of Alexandria is by invitation only, Miss Granger."

She shrugged. "I'm sure I can figure something out," she said with a sly grin.

Albus sighed and shook his head wearily. "I find myself unable to protest in the face of such a quandary," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Not that anything I could say would stop you from doing as you please, Hermione."

Draco threw his hands up in exasperation. "Welcome to the club." He leaned back in his chair, swatting Hermione away as she tried to lean over to kiss his cheek. She dodged his attempt, and he rubbed the moisture away from his jaw, glaring at her all the while. Silly girl.

Her quick grin fell away suddenly, and her eyes flashed with pain. "I wonder if we could get into Malfoy Manor to look in the library there."

Draco swallowed, remembering all that had been done to her at his family's ancestral home. "Perhaps that isn't such a good idea."

She rolled her eyes. "Your family library has books that people don't even _know_ exist. Original copies of things that no one else has. It's worth a look, Draco."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "It may be hard to convince Agricola to let you in," he hedged. "The Malfoys are very secretive, and I have no doubt that there are many books in that library that he wouldn't want anyone to be privy to. Things that might get him in trouble."

"I don't need his permission," Draco said quietly, looking his old headmaster straight in the eye. "I have all the permission I need," he said, lifting his hand. "It runs through my veins."

Albus leaned forward. "Blood magic?" he asked quietly.

Draco snorted. "The old families are fond of such dramatics," he drawled with an eye roll.

Hermione frowned. "Are you sure things won't have changed?" she asked softly.

He fixed her with a skeptical stare. "Oh come on, Granger," he said wryly. "I'm the first Malfoy that even learned what the word 'change' means."

She giggled. "True."

"So you think you could sneak in?" Dumbledore said curiously.

"Without a doubt," he replied, grunting. "Not that I particularly _want_ to go back to the place that houses eighty percent of all of my bad memories – but yeah, I can manage."

"I'll go with you," Hermione said determinedly. She had a stubborn set to her jaw that Draco was all too familiar with. Best to nip that in the bud before it gained momentum.

"No, you won't," he said coldly, doing his best impersonation of his mother.

Her jaw ticked, and for a minute she looked like she was going to argue – but then her shoulders slumped, and she looked down to the floor, her eyes resentful. "Fine," she muttered sourly.

Draco sighed in relief. If she were to go back there…well. She _couldn't_ go back there. Hermione was many things, and above all she was _strong –_ but even she couldn't step over the threshold of the house where her entire life had been ripped to shreds. She'd been tortured in half of its rooms, and she'd lay on a cell floor sticky with dried blood and decaying flesh for two months. If she were to so much as see the _outside_ of Malfoy Manor, she would probably break down into a blubbering mess – much less actually walk through its halls.

Draco wouldn't blame her. If he'd had to go through what she'd been through, he imagined he wouldn't react much differently.

"We can talk about those plans later," Draco said sharply, putting an end to the discussion. "But we don't have all day, so why don't we actually do what we came here to do?"

Granger rolled up onto her toes and back again – she had elected to remain standing, and she seemed restless. "Professor?" she prompted.

Albus cleared his throat. "I believe last time we were discussing fire."

"Yes," she confirmed, nodding her head. "And my control of it." She paused, and then scuffed her shoe on the floor. "I may or may not have accidentally… _unleashed_ some of Fawkes' fire last night," she said sheepishly. "It didn't hurt anyone," she continued, "but I found that I didn't have very much control over it. Fawkes used my anger as a conduit. Granted, I didn't exactly fight it – but it took me off guard."

Dumbledore frowned. "Dare I ask what you were doing at the time?"

Hermione looked up at the ceiling. "Well, I was _trying_ to duel Tom Riddle, but he didn't seem too keen on the idea."

Dumbledore shifted uncomfortably. "Hermione, while I have allowed you and Mister Malfoy quite a bit of leeway here at Hogwarts, I must ask you to please refrain from dueling fellow students – especially students that could potentially get you in trouble for such brash actions. Tom Riddle is an astoundingly clever young man who has lived a tremendously troubled life. While I can't claim to know everything about him, I do know this: he is far more dangerous than anyone gives him credit for. It would be unwise, I think, to underestimate him."

Draco saw Hermione swallow. "Believe me when I say I understand that, Albus," she said lowly. "I do." She sighed, and turned away. "I'm not worried about him getting me in trouble for something like that."

Draco snorted. "And why not, Hermione? You forget, Riddle will look out for himself above all others."

"Yes," she confirmed, her voice becoming hard with stubbornness, "and as such, he knows that I have the means to make his life a living hell." She turned a frigidly cold stare in his direction. "As I told him last night: I have nothing to lose. But I can take everything away from him. He won't risk it."

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "As usual, I feel very much out of the loop. However, and I'm not sure if you can confirm this for me or not, but I very much suspect that Tom has already taken life. I would be very careful, Hermione."

She nodded. "I know how dangerous he is. He won't kill me – at least not just yet." She paused. "Even if he does, what does it matter? I'll be reunited with my loved ones, and this world will have lost a girl that never belonged here in the first place."

Draco sighed, tapping his cane against the floor and shaking his head at her nonchalance. Then again – could he blame her? Was that not exactly how he felt? He was tired. She was as well. He almost felt like the lucky one – he would finally get to be at peace, and she would be left behind in a world that was equally cruel across all timelines, it seemed.

Albus sighed and hung his head. "I will…defer to your judgment." His eyes glimmered in a way that had Draco's back up.

It was only then that he remembered that Albus Dumbledore was one of the smartest, most manipulative people that walked the planet; he'd been foolish to lose sight of that. The fact that the old man had been so passive throughout this whole process was… _wrong._ He would have to talk to Hermione about it later. He didn't doubt that Dumbledore was a good man – Draco _knew_ he was. The professor would never purposefully hurt another, especially a young woman who was a student under his tutelage. But he had accumulated a lot of collateral damage over the course of his schemes. His sister Ariana, his brother Aberforth, Hermione, Ron, the Potters, Snape – they had all been affected by Dumbledore's incessant meddling.

"Shall we begin?" Hermione said, shedding her outer robes and drawing her wand. She was wearing clothes that were achingly familiar to Draco – a black tank top and olive green cargo pants that were tucked into worn leather boots. All three items of clothing had seen quite a lot of action.

Sometimes it didn't seem right, seeing her in Hogwarts uniform and normal clothes – he'd gotten so used to seeing her like this that it seemed unnatural for her to be in anything else. She was a soldier, above everything else. Not a student, not a proper young lady – she was a warrior. She belonged in warrior clothes.

Dumbledore rubbed his hands together. "Yes, let's." He gesticulated to Hermione. "Let's just start with the basics. Is your connection with Fawkes strong at the moment?"

Draco saw her nostrils flare, and then a warm golden-orange color flushed briefly beneath her skin, and her eyes blazed with fire.

The professor cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It would seem so. Now – let his power come to the forefront, and channel that fire through your wand and in a stream towards the target."

Before he had even finished the sentence, a stream of bright orange fire spouted from the tip of her wand; she looked just as surprised as they were, and she brought her other hand up to steady her wand hand as the jet of bright flame consumed one of the targets, burning it to ash in seconds. The heat on Draco's face was immense, and he held a hand up to shield his eyes.

When the fire abruptly vanished, Hermione looked shaken. "That…" She swallowed. "That was not a hundred percent intentional."

Draco's eyes shifted over to meet those of the Transfiguration professor. Dumbledore looked worried. Draco cleared his throat. "It's not necessarily a bad thing, Granger," he said, trying to put her mind at ease even if his own was whirling in consternation. "If Fawkes can act somewhat of his own accord, then that means even if you aren't quick enough to defend yourself for some reason, he'll jump in to help. I wouldn't be too worried – he's a part of you. It'll be like having a new instinct, of sorts."

She nodded hurriedly, looking skittish. "It wasn't a…bad feeling," she hedged, shifting from one foot to the other. "But it was odd. It didn't feel wrong, though. It felt almost natural. I can't explain it."

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Do you think you could repeat that without a wand?"

Hermione hesitated, and then nodded. She handed her wand to Draco, who looked at it suspiciously before taking it – it jumped in his hand and shocked him, but it did not react violently as it had a few months previous. He thought the difference was because this time he had Hermione's permission to touch it, and last time he had not.

Looking down at the palm of her right hand, she lifted it and pointed it towards the next target. It took about ten seconds, but then her fingers glowed and caught fire, and it spread up her arm to her elbow before twisting and shooting from her fingertips in winding streams. The flames engulfed the target, burning it to a crisp.

When she was finished, she let the fire die out, but her arm still glowed red, the veins underneath the skin bright yellow, like the surface of hardening lava riddled with cracks and fissures. It was beautiful and otherworldly and frightening all at once.

She was breathing hard, her chest heaving up and down as she stared at the slowly fading color in her arm. When it had faded back to normal, the skin was back to its usual golden-tinged ivory, unharmed.

She wrinkled her brow. "If I'm impervious to fire," she began slowly, looking more than a little uncertain, "then how come Macnair was able to burn my hand?" she finished, waving her still healing hand in their direction. It was angry and red, but it was finally beginning to crust over.

Draco shook his head. "Macnair's curse was dark," he said, frowning. "It was blue fire, and no one knew how he did it. It wasn't normal."

"Also," Dumbledore said, looking fascinated, "keep in mind that you might only be impervious to the fire that _you_ produce. If you were to stick your hand in a flame of my making, it might burn."

"I'd like to test that theory, if that's all right," she said resolutely. She had that look in her eye, one that he was so familiar with; the one that meant she was bound and determined to unravel a mystery. It was a look that had his heart simultaneously sinking and soaring: soaring because it was Hermione Granger at her purest, and sinking because such a look would usually get them in a lot of trouble.

Dumbledore frowned. "If you're sure." At Hermione's nod, he opened his hand, and a tiny orange flame appeared. It seemed almost dim in comparison with Fawkes' fire.

With a stubborn look on her face, she held out her uninjured left hand and passed her forearm through the flame. Her skin caught fire, and it spread rapidly down to her hand and up to her shoulder, singeing the sleeve of her tank top. She did not seem to feel any pain. Dumbledore closed his hand, and instantly the fire died down, once again leaving her skin glowing like dying embers before it too faded.

Albus cleared his throat. "In addition to being resistant to the effects of fire, Hermione, it seems that you are also highly flammable. This is something I think you need to be very careful with – if you accidentally get too close to a flame and come into direct contact with it, you will draw a lot of attention to yourself. People don't just catch on fire and come out of it unscathed."

She nodded, looking sufficiently wary. "I'll try to be extra careful." She paused. "I'd like to try something else," she said, emboldened. The professor gestured for her to continue. "I'm wondering if I can control the fire that someone else casts."

"So rather than just letting someone else's spell hit you, you want to see if you can redirect it?" Draco asked curiously. "That could be immensely useful."

"A very helpful defensive skill," Dumbledore agreed, nodding his head. "Shall we give it a go?"

She nodded, holding both of her hands out. Their old headmaster pointed his wand towards one of the targets, and a stream of flame jetted out to hit it.

It consumed the target before Hermione could get control of it; as it was, she grunted with the effort and had to move closer to the jet of flame in order to bend it to her will. After a minute she was able to pull all of the fire into a ball and sent it careening toward the end of the long room, where it hit another target.

Dumbledore clapped his hands, looking impressed. "Extraordinary. Very well done, Hermione."

She panted and bent over to put her hands on her knees, sweat pouring down her face and neck. "That was exceptionally difficult," she said breathlessly. "I feel drained."

Draco raised an eyebrow, unable to help the small thrill that went through him at her display of abilities. It was disconcerting, but amazing. "Is it something you think you could get better at if you had more practice?" he questioned.

She nodded. "Without a doubt. We'll just have to start a bit more slowly. This has almost completely depleted my energy, and my magic took a hit as well, although I can already feel it starting to recover. Next time we should begin with something a bit smaller."

Dumbledore smiled. "And please, feel free to practice these things in your free time, if you wish. I would love to see what you have accomplished the next time we meet."

"Which will be when, exactly?" Draco asked, suddenly feeling tired. It didn't take much to drain his energy, these days.

"Perhaps Monday morning?" he suggested, twisting his beard in his fingers. "I'd very much like to find out what you learn on your trip to Tangier, and we can continue with this little experiment as well."

"Sounds good to me," Hermione said, wiping sweat from her brow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to go clean up a bit and get ready for the day."

"Remember that you need to be at the Hog's Head a few minutes before twelve," Dumbledore said, reaching into his robes and handing Draco a piece of parchment. "These are the directions from your arrival point to Barenbolm's home. Have either of you been to Tangier before?"

Hermione raised her hand. "I have, very briefly. We never left the wizarding bazaar though, so I didn't get to see much."

Dumbledore smiled. "It is an interesting place. Full of rich history and culture. I do hope that you will take just a little bit of time to explore." He cleared his throat. "I find that the eastern side of the city is particularly interesting." He stood, and raised his hat in farewell. "Good day, and safe travels."

Hermione waved a hand, and Draco nodded. Soon enough, they were alone.

"The eastern side of the city?" Hermione asked, cocking her head.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Just another one of those instances where Dumbledore drops some vague hint and expects us to figure it out."

Her nostrils flared as she shrugged back into her robe. "Infuriating man."

"Speaking of which," he said, casting a _Muffliato_ around them and opening the door, "I think he's being far too passive about this whole situation. I think he's wise enough to know that knowing too much of the future is detrimental," he continued, checking both ways before exiting, "but he's definitely up to something."

She hummed. "I agree. The way he reacted to me trying to duel Tom was a lot more conceding than I thought. He didn't even ask me why."

Draco stopped, leaning on his cane, and looked at her knowingly. "It was a test?" he asked. She grinned, and he couldn't help the smile that tugged on the corners of his mouth. "You sneaky Slytherin, you."

She threw back her head and laughed. "I'm going to go get ready for Muggle Studies. We can continue this conversation over the weekend when we have a bit more privacy and time. See you in a little while?" she asked, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, rolling his eyes and pushing her away. "Go do your primping. I'll see you in a bit."

She smiled, and turned away. He watched her walk down the hall and wondered if she realized how assured and elegant she was in comparison with so many of the young witches in the castle. There was something in the way she moved and held herself that drew the eye, a surety and self-belief that, when paired with grace, was pleasing and intriguing.

She was the perfect trap, for a boy like Tom Riddle – the noose that he would step into, oblivious until it began to tighten around his neck; but at that point, it would be too late.

* * *

oooo

Hermione and Draco were walking down the halls, intent on their destination – it was 11:20, and they needed to get down to Hogsmeade. Draco was walking without his cane, twirling the smooth bit of wood in his hands and whistling. Aside from a bit of a limp, he seemed to be doing all right, if not a bit tired.

She looked over at him and narrowed her eyes. "You took an extra potion today, didn't you?" she accused quietly.

His eyes flicked over to her and then forwards again, and he shrugged. "Maybe."

She shook her head angrily. "Draco, you're _not_ supposed to do that!" she hissed lowly. "Those potions are meant to be taken on a regimented schedule. Who knows what that might do to you?"

Draco looked at her scathingly. "Whatever it _does_ do probably won't be nearly as bad as what's happening to me _now_ , Hermione," he said acerbically.

She scowled, but before she could respond, she heard brisk footsteps behind them.

"Hermione!"

They both turned, and her stomach did several consecutive somersaults as Tom _fucking_ Riddle sauntered towards them, his face carefully blank. His hands were thrust in his pockets, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt folded back over his forearms. His green Slytherin tie was knotted loosely at his throat, disappearing into the top of his navy blue sweater vest. He looked relaxed, unbothered, the long, lean lines of his body so gracefully arranged that she was struck, again, by how physically flawless he was. She felt an unwelcome pinch of awareness in her lower abdomen.

"Tom," she said, letting the name roll off her tongue in a dark purr that she knew would have his spine straightening. His eyes flashed, and she cocked her head, smiling mildly. "We would really love to stay and chat, but we have to be a – "

"At Hogsmeade, yes, I'm aware," he interrupted. "Let me walk you to the doors, at least. Where is it that you're going again?"

"North Africa," she replied as they started to walk again. Draco's face was flawlessly schooled into a mask of indifference, but there was a brief tightening of his jaw that gave him away, and she imagined that he was currently fantasizing about putting his hand on the back of Riddle's head and slamming his face into the nearest wall. Hermione couldn't help but be amused by the image.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know _that._ But North Africa is a very large place, and I can't imagine that you're going to spend a weekend walking across the Sahara Desert. So where in North Africa will you be?"

She stopped when they reached the doors to the castle, and beckoned him closer with her hand. His brow furrowed, but he leaned down closer to her so she could whisper directly in his ear.

"It's a secret," she breathed in his ear, careful not to accidentally touch her lips to her skin; no matter how much she may have wanted to.

His jaw ticked as he pulled away. He glared at her. She merely grinned, patted him familiarly on the arm, and then turned. "We'll see you when we get back, Tom," she said coyly, fluttering her eyelashes teasingly. A slow smirk spread across her face. "And give my love to Rosier…tell him I'll miss him dearly, and that we'll have to get together soon. I thoroughly enjoy our time together."

She wiggled her fingers at him, and then flounced out the front doors and down onto the path, never once looking back. The smells of cracked pepper, sandalwood and bergamot lingered in her nose, and she flared her nostrils.

Draco kept up with her, and they strolled down the path together. When they were a sufficient distance away from Hogwarts (and Tom), he spoke, casting a quick _Muffliato_ just in case. "That was brilliant," he said lowly, a wicked smirk curling on his face. "You should have seen his face. He looked so frustrated."

She grinned. "He's actually rather fun to rile up. I thought that he would be so cold and indifferent to everything, but he has quite a temper. He's got feelings," she continued, squinting up at the overcast sky. "It's just that none of them are positive. He feels rage, and frustration, and boredom, and disdain, and pride, and greed, and lust. He's not some emotionless block of stone." She sighed, looking over at her friend as they approached the gates. "It's difficult to watch, sometimes. Just being around him, being in his presence – he's an _incredible_ wizard, Draco. Bloody brilliant. And all I can think about is how sad it will be to watch all of that go down the drain."

"It doesn't have to," Draco said quietly, looking contemplative. "It doesn't have to be that way. You have the power to change things, Granger. So change them."

She made a doubtful noise in her throat. "I'm not so sure. I'll try, of course – try to get him to see things from a different perspective, to divert his efforts to something less extreme. It might work, if I can get close enough." She cocked her head. "It's funny – on the few occasions when I have brought up blood purity, he almost looks…confused. About what I'm saying. It's like no one's ever challenged him on it before. No one has ever contradicted him. He's surrounded himself with the same kinds of people, and so he's never had anyone around who brings other opinions to the table. It's interesting to watch his brain try to process contradictory information."

Draco cleared his throat. "You will, I think, need to expose your heritage to him at some point," he said, his grey eyes sharp as his mind worked. "It will have to be done at just the right moment, and in just the right way; after you get close enough to him that he won't just recoil in disgust and toss you away. You'll have to become valuable to him; too valuable to lose over something like blood and parentage."

She thought hard about that for a moment. When they began to come up on Hogsmeade, she spoke. "What was one thing that Voldemort liked to have in our timeline?" She asked softly.

Draco swallowed, but she could see him follow her line of thought. "We've already discussed his desire for power – but I see where you're going with this. Trophies. He liked trophies. The founders' possessions that he made into horcruxes, the Elder Wand, the ring he took from his uncle – and Potter told me that even as a child Riddle would steal things from the other orphans and hide them in a box."

Hermione nodded. "Do you think that a human-phoenix hybrid would be a trophy he'd be interested in having?" she asked contemplatively.

Draco frowned. "You want to tell him about Fawkes?" he asks, his words laced heavily with disapproval.

She hummed. "Perhaps. Not yet, but…it might end up being a prudent choice. Without Fawkes, I am still a powerful, smart, fairly attractive witch with a penchant for inventive spell-creation – but none of those things make me irreplaceable. My hybrid status is extremely rare, and all of the effects are still unknown. I wouldn't be nearly as disposable then. He would be all the more reluctant to throw me away – i.e., _kill_ me – if he knew that I had one of the most mysterious and most powerful creatures on earth just sitting pretty inside my body, slowly but surely sinking further into my very being." She exhaled shakily. "Very soon Fawkes and I will cease to be separate entities," she said, feeling Fawkes stir sleepily in her chest before settling back down. "We will become one and the same. Tom will covet this. He will want the power for himself, of course, but when he figures out that that isn't an option, he'll just want to own me instead. He'll delight in the fact that he has what nobody else has."

"He already wants to own you," Draco grumbled, tapping his cane on the ground as they entered the little wizarding town. It was relatively quiet, just a few people milling around in the streets.

She took a moment to appreciate the simplistic beauty of the moment; brightly colored leaves floated down to the ground and were kicked around by a handful of red-cheeked shoppers, who rubbed their hands together to stave off the chill. A group of older men stood around a fire pit in front of The Three Broomsticks, laughing and puffing on pipes. A young mother was holding the hand of a very tiny girl, who was contentedly licking a large, brightly colored lollipop and pointing at every bird she saw.

It was all so lovely and innocent, and Hermione's heart ached to see it.

"I'm toying with the idea of letting him," she countered, her attention coming back to the conversation at hand as they rounded the corner where they knew the Hog's Head to be. "I won't make it easy, of course, and I'll have to make it clear that I am not just some slave that he can order around – but think I could let myself belong to him. If it put me in a position where I knew I could influence him, I would do it."

Draco looked thoughtful, but then shook his head. "If you concede to becoming one of his possessions, he will start to lose respect for you," he said, stopping in the street in front of the Hog's Head. "You must maintain that you are his equal, Granger – or at least _close_ to being his equal. I think that's important."

She sighed. "You're probably right," she said. Anytime she thought about Tom Riddle, she felt a great deal of uncertainty. For all of her knowledge of him, from childhood to adolescence to the monster he would become, she did not have any idea what the future would look like. She had to keep reminding herself that this was a different timeline; and that in this timeline, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr. would have one Hermione Jean Granger to deal with. Whether as friend or foe, that in and of itself would change things enormously.

"Let's not think about these things any more today," Draco said quietly, reaching out and tugging at a piece of her wild hair. "Tell me what you know about Morocco."

So she did. Their minds no longer weighed down with the burden of thinking of heavier things, they entered the Hog's Head and sat down at a table. There was only one other patron, a man in a dark cloak that sat at the bar. As she told Draco what little she knew about Tangier, Hermione watched Aberforth Dumbledore out of the corner of her eye, marveling at how haggard he appeared compared to his older brother. But then, Ariana's death had hit Aberforth very, very hard. Eventually Albus had been able to put it to rest – Hermione knew that Aberforth never would.

With plodding footsteps, the older man finally came out from behind the bar and approached their table. He stared down at them with poorly concealed dislike. "You must be the students that are headed to Morocco."

Hermione smiled up at him, remembering Aberforth and his role in the Order back in her timeline. He had been grouchy and curmudgeonly and staunchly pessimistic, but he had somehow always been there when they'd needed him, and he'd been lucky enough to be one of the few among the older generations that had managed to stay alive.

"Yes," she said graciously. "I'm Hermione, and this is Draco. You must be Aberforth."

He grunted in response, seemingly surprised at her politeness, and briefly hesitated before taking the hand that she offered him and shaking it firmly. He did the same with Draco. After the brief introduction, he took something out of his pocket and laid it on the table in front of them. It was a very large, ornate key, its gold tarnished with age.

"It's set to leave at noon," he said gruffly, clearing his throat. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was 11:45. "Either of you want a drink before you go, better get it quick."

Hermione shook her head. "Not today, Mister Dumbledore," she said lightly. "I'm afraid that alcohol and portkey travel don't mix very well for me."

Draco cleared his throat, and then handed Aberforth a handful of coins that was three times more than any drink would cost. "A shot of something dark," he said, tapping his cane against the floor. "Surprise me."

Aberforth snorted and blinked, and then he shrugged and took the money, going back behind the bar. When he returned, it was with a glass of sparkling dark liquid, almost black in color.

Draco looked at it curiously, and took a tentative sip. He swallowed, and when he opened his mouth to speak, a puff of black smoke escaped and drifted upwards.

His eyes were wide. "That is – that is – What _is_ that?"

"That is Swizzle Smoke," Aberforth responded, smiling slightly.

"It's _amazing,"_ Draco said inarticulately, looking stunned. "Incredible. I can't believe I've never heard of it."

"It's illegal," Aberforth grunted, crossing his arms. "It's banned throughout a lot of western Europe."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of Draco's drink and huffing out a laugh as the odd liquid tickled her insides and infused her sinuses with something warm and wonderful. She couldn't quite describe it. "Why is it illegal, Mr. Dumbledore? And why do you serve it in your pub if that's the case?"

Aberforth shrugged. "I've heard a lot about the two of you. Figured you could handle it. Also, if you were to go blabbing, you would get me and yourselves into trouble, seeing as students aren't allowed to drink hard liquor no matter how old they are. School policy." He paused, his eyes twinkling merrily. "It's illegal because it has dragon blood in it," he said lowly. "You can't have more than one drink, and you have to give it a couple of weeks before you can have another. Dragon blood is lethal in large quantities. There were too many deaths among wizards who were dumb enough to misuse it, so it was banned. I get the occasional bottle from a trader who passes through here once every few months; he's from Saudi Arabia. It's hard to come by."

Draco hummed, looking like he approved. Hermione narrowed her eyes, but did not say anything – she was no stranger to illegal activity. She was no saint. Still, he was supposed to be a responsible businessman, and he was selling students – students! – potentially fatal liquor.

Still, she watched Draco sip at it contentedly, and for once, he looked ageless again, without stress, without darkness, just an innocent boy who was worried about nothing more than quidditch and school. It was nice to see, so she kept quiet, her lips curving up as he breathed smoke and watched it rise into the air, fascinated.

He smiled at Aberforth, looking years younger. "Thanks for sharing," he said genuinely. "It might not mean much, but you've gained a friend in me, Mister Dumbledore."

Aberforth grunted, but Hermione saw a flash of vulnerability in his sparkling blue eyes. "Those are hard to come by, too," he said knowingly. Hermione gave him a soft smile. "The two of you are welcome any time." He cleared his throat awkwardly, and pointed at the clock on the wall. "You've got one minute," he said gruffly. "Better not miss it."

Draco tossed back the rest of his drink and blew some smoke into Hermione's face. She coughed and glared at him.

They both put a hand on the portkey as Aberforth took Draco's empty glass. "I'll see you back here on Sunday at noon. I hope your trip is…productive," he said with a raised eyebrow.

Draco grinned and saluted the older man. In their original timeline Draco and Aberforth had gotten on well from the day they'd met. They had similar attitudes on many things. It was nice to see their old comrade again, alive and whole and undamaged by years of war.

"We'll be here," Hermione said, nodding in farewell. Before he could reply, they were being sucked through space, and landed hard on sandy stone.

* * *

oooo

Hermione coughed and blinked, brushing sand from her clothes. "Well," she said, standing and helping Draco to his feet. "Didn't exactly stick the landing, did we?"

Draco grumbled and shed his outer cloak. The heat was stifling, even in the shade. They'd landed in between two buildings in a shady alley, and, looking around to make sure they were alone, stuffed their robes in her purple bag. She got out two lightweight scarves and handed one to Draco – they wrapped their heads shoulders in the gauzy taupe material, making sure to cover their hair and the bottoms of their faces. The scarves would both protect them from the sand and wind and help conceal their identities. They weren't hiding, per say, but they didn't exactly want to call attention to themselves, either.

She smoothed her hands down her green sleeveless tunic, and hitched her khaki pants up higher on her hips, checking to see that they were sufficiently tucked into her boots. Draco did the same, double-checking his wand and the knife that he wore on his hip.

She giggled. He frowned at her. "What?"

"It just feels so familiar – like we're on a mission or something," she said with a soft smile. "It's nice. I miss it. Is that weird?"

"No," he said, squinting up at the sky. "I'm dreadfully bored at Hogwarts. I miss it too." He sighed. "It's not that I'm not grateful to be in a safe place, with food and a bath and a soft bed. It's just…" He trailed off, not able to find the words.

"It's unfamiliar. We're not used to it," she said softly. "We don't fit there anymore."

"No," he said, tapping his cane on the alley floor. His jaw ticked. "We don't."

Wordlessly, they both headed towards the main street. Draco looked at the slip of paper Dumbledore had given him, and snorted at the crude drawing. He showed it to Hermione. "Not very artistic, is he?"

She chuckled. "So it would seem. So…" She tilted her head and looked at the image. "Two rights, a left on Jhinna Avenue, and another right, where we'll leave the First Wizarding District – which we're in now – and step into the Muggle world. Then we cross this big street here," she continued, pointing, "and go down the stairs and through the gate that leads to the Fifth Wizarding District. Then another right, and we'll be in the Mage's Square, and he lives in a riad on the back side, around the corner from this apothecary."

Draco looked up to the sky and groaned. "And there wasn't _any_ way to get us _closer_ to this place? We have to cross through the bloody Muggle world to get to his house."

"I think he was trying to familiarize us with the path, because the Ministry isn't far from here in this district and we'll have to come back to it in order to leave on Sunday."

Draco rolled his eyes. "How many Districts are there, exactly?"

"Five," she answered. "The First is in the very center of the city, and all of the other districts surround it. Like a pinwheel."

"Interesting," Draco mumbled as they stopped at the edge of the alley. "And you can't get from one to the other without entering the Muggle world?"

She shook her head. "Not publically, no. I imagine there are secret entrances, and probably a couple of Ministry regulated paths, for emergencies and the like. But the general public has to use the main gates."

"Better put notice-me-not charms on ourselves before we get to the Muggle world," he said lowly. "You're not exactly in conventional garb for a woman in the 1940s. The wizarding society here is far more liberal than the Muggle one."

"A good idea," she agreed with a nod. "Ready?"

He tucked the map back into his pocket, knowing that her photographic memory would have it memorized already. "Let's get to it. He's expecting us soon."

When they stepped out into the sunny street, Hermione's senses were assaulted with a whirl of bright colors and loud noises. A man stood on the front stoop of a store with a screech owl on his arm, shouting out into the crowds to get their attention. A group of small children ran by, giggling as they evaded their hassled mother. An Indian man in a turban sat on the steps to the Gringotts bank, charming a snake with his flute; Hermione's mind wandered to Tom Riddle, and she scowled and tried to push those thoughts violently from her head with little success.

His words of dark promise last night had her mind still reeling, and the memory of the way his large hands had taken possession of her body so smoothly and so effortlessly…she shuddered. It had felt so natural. The way his body had fit against hers, the way his lips had skimmed across her skin, the way the rigid line of his cock had pressed against her backside; it was easy, flawless, an automatic connection that was usually relegated to couples that had been together for a long time.

It was odd, because while usually she felt a deep sense of endangerment when in Riddle's presence, it was different when he held her. She felt…safe. In danger of a different sort – the danger of falling under his spell and tumbling into his bed – but fundamentally safe.

That scared her.

She wanted to find out what he tasted like. She wanted to take his bottom lip between her teeth, wanted to coax his mouth open with her tongue, wanted to feel his lips move against hers. She wanted to feel those cool, dry, delightfully large hands on her skin, wanted them to cup her breasts, wanted them to slide into her knickers and press against her clit.

A hand hit her on the back and she jerked forward and stumbled, realizing that she had stopped walking and was staring at the snake charmer whilst trapped inside her thoughts.

"Get him out of your head, Granger," Draco said with narrowed eyes. She blushed, and looked down at the ground in shame. "You can get back to daydreaming about Riddle when we return to school, but we've got too many things to do here to be distracted by flights of fancy and torrid fantasies."

Her head snapped up and she gasped with outrage. "I do not have _torrid fantasies!"_ she hissed, glaring at him. "Don't be disgusting, Draco. I was only thinking about…things."

Draco's lips twitched into a teasing smile. "Things?"

She gritted her teeth, trying to contain the raging color that bloomed on her cheeks. Her nostrils flared, and she pulled her scarf back up to cover her mouth and nose. "Let's go."

She ignored his chuckle as she pushed forward, walking along the path that she'd memorized from the picture. She pushed Tom Riddle from her mind (successfully this time) and stalked forward, sliding through throngs of people, Draco close behind.

"That's the Ministry, there next to the bazaar," she said in passing, pointing to the elegant structure that they were walking past that abutted one of the largest wizarding markets in the world.

"Pretty," Draco murmured in acknowledgment.

It was made of stucco and stone, and all of the windows were stained glass. Its turrets and towers rose high into the sky. Hermione could tell that it was a much older establishment than the English Ministry.

Then again, Morocco was a much older place. Civilization had boomed here long before it reached the British Isles. She was fascinated by the history of this region. North Africa and the Middle East were so rich in culture and tradition. It was very interesting.

She rolled her eyes as the nerdy bookworm came out to play; as she passed the Ministry, she put that version of herself back into its box, and continued moving, assessing their location with a warrior's mind. She knew Draco was doing the same.

"I can't help but feel eyes on me," she said lowly as he came to walk beside her, the widening of the street giving them extra space.

"I feel it too," he murmured. "But while you've been fantasizing about banging Lord Voldemort, I've been vigilant." His voice was serious, but there was a teasing edge to it that had her elbowing him in the ribs. "I haven't seen anything."

She squinted up at the hot sun. "Maybe we're overly paranoid," she offered.

"Of course we're overly paranoid," he said with a scoff. "And it's kept us alive. Paranoid or not, my gut is telling me that we're being watched."

"We're coming up on the gate to the Muggle world," she said softly. "Let's go ahead and cast the notice-me-not charms."

Draco grunted, and pulled his wand from his wrist holster as she did the same. "Yeah, the only problem with that is that we might forget each other."

She chuckled. "You're thinking of Russia."

"You _left me behind,_ Granger," he said sullenly. "Merlin. What a bloody disaster."

She giggled as they approached the gate, and slipped through the wrought iron grate with a tap of their wands. No one stopped them, no one spoke to them, no one noticed them. She grabbed his hand as they stepped out onto the wide Muggle street, barely dodging a military vehicle as it passed, trundling down the dusty dirt road. Hermione could not for the life of her remember who had occupied Tangier during World War II; all she could remember was that it was complicated.

No matter. That didn't apply to them right now. All they had to do was get across the street and down the stairs to the Fifth District gate.

They walked briskly, and Draco kept up just fine, thanks to his abuse of his potions.

When they passed through the gate, they both breathed a sigh of relief. Still, they did not lift the notice-me-not charms, and they didn't let go of each other's hands.

The Fifth District was remarkably quiet. A few people milled about, but it was mostly a residential area, with a few shops here and there. Hermione no longer got the sense that they were being watched, and tugged on Draco's hand. "This way."

Within three minutes they came up on Mage's Square, which was home to an apothecary, a small produce market, and what looked like a weaver's store. Up ahead, Hermione saw a gate, and through it she spotted a fountain. "There," she said, pointing. "That's the entrance to his riad." She squeezed his hand. "Ready? Perhaps we'll get some answers."

Draco grunted. "Perhaps." Together, they moved across the square and passed through the gate into the courtyard, coming to stand next to a fountain.

A dark-skinned man came out into the courtyard, and he gave them a respectful bow, which they returned.

"Come," he said, his English heavily accented. "The Master is expecting you."

With one last look at each other, they followed his lead and stepped inside.

* * *

oooo

Octavius Barenbolm was far younger than Draco had expected. He looked to be around forty, with a dusting of silver threaded through the dark hair at his temples, and faint lines around his eyes. He was tall and thin and rather handsome, wearing thick-rimmed square glasses and smoking a pipe. If they had been in the Muggle world, Barenbolm would be the philosophy professor at university that all of the girls giggled about.

They had already gotten introductions out of the way and had had tea, and now they were sitting in his office and discussing what would happen over the course of the weekend.

"I will take some samples tonight," he was saying, his English flawless. Draco could barely tell he was German. "Blood, hair, skin, the like. Tomorrow we will begin the tests." He took his glasses off and polished them, fixing Hermione and then Draco with an intense blue-eyed stare. "I will do what I can to get to the bottom of this affliction, Mister Mallery, but I can't promise anything."

"I'm here to amuse my friend, Mister Barenbolm," Draco said with a small smile. "I am under no illusions that I'll be miraculously healed. That's a fool's hope."

Hermione glared at him and wacked him on the arm with the book she held in her hands. "No one has _ever_ accused me of being a fool," she hissed crossly. He could see the angry tears glimmer in her eyes. "Try not to be so bloody grim all the time, would you? It's like walking around with a fucking dementor." She looked to Octavius and smiled, her demeanor shifting completely. "We _really_ appreciate what you're doing for us, Mister Barenbolm. It's kind of you to take time off from work to see us."

He shrugged, puffing away on his pipe. He was looking at her strangely. Draco thought it might have been amusement mixed with a tinge of interest. "These days work is sporadic for me. I retired from working at Gringotts and now I'm doing my own thing. My schedule is wildly flexible, and I don't really have much of anything happening workwise right now." He gave them a small smile. "This is the first interesting thing that's crossed my path in quite some time."

"Glad we could be of service," Draco said with a dry smile.

Octavius chuckled. He stood, and they followed. Hermione put the book back on his desk where she'd found it. It was titled merely The Curse. She hadn't gotten a chance to open it.

"You can take that with you, Miss Granger," Barenbolm said, nodding to the book. "As long as it makes its way back into my office by the time you depart."

She nodded, turning it over in her hands. "What is it about?" she asked curiously.

He smirked at her and brushed imaginary dust off of his green velvet smoking jacket, looking very dapper. "You have eyes, I believe. And it is written in English. You seem very bright, Miss Granger. I doubt you'll have any trouble figuring it out."

She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes, but did not say anything. Barenbolm laughed, Draco sniggered, and the three of them left the office, stepping down the hall to another room, large and well lit.

"This is my laboratory," Barenbolm said, showing them inside.

Hermione looked around in wonder. "You're a chemist!" she said excitedly, peering at the vast array of beakers and test tubes and Bunsen burners that littered some of the tables. Draco rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm. "This is Muggle equipment."

Barenbolm shrugged. "I'm a hopeless academic. When I got bored with curse-breaking I moved on to potions, and alchemy, and then it was a short jump to chemistry. Very interesting science."

Draco tuned them out as Hermione began to question him: _Did he know about the Manhattan Project? Had he heard about the isolation of folic acid in America? What sorts of things was he working on? Was that mercury in that vial over there, and if so, what was he doing with it?_ Barenbolm was patient with her, more than happy to answer her questions. He wasn't a very expressive man, but Draco thought he might have been excited. It was probably because he'd never met an academic at his level. He seemed surprised with every question, but pleased to be able to speak freely to someone of equal intelligence.

Draco sighed and sat down on a chair, suddenly feeling tired. It was almost three o'clock, and he felt the potions he'd taken that morning wearing thin.

"Draco?"

His head snapped up at hearing Hermione's voice so close, and it was only then that he realized he'd been almost asleep in the chair. "Sorry," he replied. "Feeling a bit sluggish."

Barenbolm's mouth tightened. "Let me take some samples Mister Mallery – it will only take a moment. Then I'll show you to your quarters, and you can rest and wash up. I'd like it if both of you would join me for dinner tonight at seven."

Draco nodded in acquiescence, and Barenbolm motioned for him to hold out his arm. He did so, and barely flinched when he felt the pinch of a needle in his arm and watched the tube suck the blood from his veins with swift magic. Similarly he allowed Barenbolm to pull a strand of hair from his head, and sat in silence as the man clipped a piece of excess skin from a callus on the bottom of his foot and swabbed the inside of his mouth with a small piece of cloth.

It was over within a few minutes, and then he was being ushered from the room and down the stairs. He let his best friend push him down onto a bed and lift his feet up onto the mattress. When she cloaked him with a blanket, he was instantly asleep.

oooo

* * *

 **Sorry this took so long – I haven't really been feeling motivated to write for this story lately. I think people want Hermione and Tom to just get together already, but I just can't justify that yet. Since the last chapter, Tom and Hermione's relationship will become decidedly more physical and more sexual, certainly, but I'm not just going to throw them in bed together to appease your (and my) longing for some Tomione smut. I want the tension between them to be slow and intense and to make my readers anxious, and I want the eventual sex between them to be explosive.**

 **Also, even though I intended to have this fic be a romance, primarily, it has turned into something much more. It's become very Hermione-centric, and is delving into her struggles more than anything else, at this point: her relationship with Fawkes, the tension with Tom and his Knights of Walpurgis, dealing with Draco's possible death, Albus' scheming, inter-house unity, navigating the waters of government and high-society, the rip in space-time, and, of course, Grindelwald's shadow that looms ever closer. So it isn't just a romance anymore – it's morphed into a real story with a** _ **plot.**_ ***gasps***

 **I also never expected it to be this long. I never thought that I'd ever have a story over 200K words – much less a story over 200K words where there hasn't been any sex yet. (Seriously, guys, I am such a smut junkie – I usually can't keep myself from just jumping right on in – hence all of my one-shots.) It's crazy. I'm practically drooling over the amazing sex that is going to happen down the road, but I can't give into that smut bunny just yet. So please, be patient with me.**

 **A little snippet from the next chapter:**

 _He flinched violently as, in a move as carefully controlled and flawlessly executed as a snake striking its prey, Mallery grabbed the man by the hair, pulled his head up, and jabbed the broken bottle into his exposed neck._

 **You guys are amazing as always. Please, please, please oh please oh please review. I live for your reviews. They are the one thing I really have to look forward to at the end of the day.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	24. Chapter 24

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Also, just thought I'd mentioned that I have a new Dramione that I've published. A slow-burning romance/mystery that will have you moaning and groaning in suspense. It's update schedule will be far more sporadic than this one, but I'll still hopefully be able to post every two weeks or thereabouts.**

 **Please review!**

* * *

oooo

What interests me is the sense of the darkness that we carry within us, the darkness that's akin to one of the principal subjects of the sublime - terror. –Anish Kapoor

When the past no longer illuminates the future, the spirit walks in darkness. –Alexis de Tocqueville

The element of fire to me is very powerful because of what it symbolizes, how it symbolizes a strength. It symbolizes something that's unstoppable. You can't get through it, you know. –Alicia Keys

'Cause that's just the way of the world  
It never ends till the end, then you start again  
That's just the way of the world  
That's just the way of the world  
-"Thumbs" by Sabrina Carpenter

* * *

oooo

"And was your trip to Egypt successful?"

Hermione stepped through the open door of Barenbolm's lab and frowned. "No," she said lowly, looking at the unconscious form of her best friend lay out on a metal table. "I didn't find what I was looking for."

Octavius made a noise in his throat. "I'm sorry to hear it."

She hummed. "I appreciate you hooking me up with Monsieur Beaufort," she said. "He was very kind, and I appreciate the discreet nature of his business."

To her embarrassment, she hadn't actually considered _how_ she was to get to Alexandria. It had been too late to get a portkey, and unless she was to procure one through illegal means, portkeys were regulated by the government. The distance between Tangier and Alexandria was too far to apparate. So she had appealed to Octavius Friday evening at dinner, and conveniently enough he knew the operator of a _strikken,_ a wizarding boat of sorts that traveled faster than a plane. She'd skimmed across the Mediterranean Sea and had been there in three hours.

Of course, it had been a waste of her time. The Library of Alexandria was an incredible place, and very old; but like Pyotr and Katarina had said: hybridization was something that only certain magical creatures were aware of – something that had been passed down orally for generations that was now little more than a myth.

"He's a very old friend," Barenbolm said. "We went to Beauxbatons together."

"You went to Beauxbatons?" Hermione said, stepping over to where Draco lay, breathing heavily and hooked up to all sorts of machines. "I thought most Germans went to Durmstrang."

Octavius shrugged. "My mother was French," he said in explanation. "And she didn't like the idea of me going to Durmstrang. Their teaching methods are…questionable. A good school, to be sure, but it isn't for everyone." He laid a hand on Draco's forehead. "And, in fact, only two thirds of German witches and wizards go to Durmstrang – there is a good chunk of the population that attends Beauxbatons, particularly those that live in the southern part of the country."

She cocked her head. "I didn't know that," she said quietly. She squeezed Draco's hand. "How is he?"

"He's fine, Miss Granger," Octavius said. "No worse or better than he was yesterday. I've unhooked him from the sedative I had him on now that I'm finished with my tests. He should start to wake in about an hour. Just in time for dinner."

He started out the door, and she reluctantly turned from her friend and followed the curse-breaker down the hall and into his office, trailing her hand along the beautiful zillij tile that lined the walls.

"So what have you figured out?" she asked, sitting in the chair in front of his desk and crossing her legs. She noticed his gaze flicker down to her scars quickly before he sat and focused on lighting his pipe.

He sighed. "Whatever hit your friend, Miss Granger, was very, very dark."

"Yes, I know," Hermione said with a frown. "I'm very familiar with the nature of the woman who cast it."

He leaned forward. "And this witch – I gather she's not available to question?"

"She's dead," Hermione answered, unable to keep the acid from her voice. Oh, how she hated that woman. "And even if she was alive, she'd cut out her own tongue before she would tell us anything about it, just to spite me."

Octavius raised a cool eyebrow. "Sounds delightful."

Hermione barked out an unexpected laugh. "Oh yes." She inhaled. While her hatred for Voldemort had cooled slightly in the face of her newfound acquaintanceship with Tom Riddle (then again, perhaps it was more that that hatred applied to the Voldemort in her original timeline and not to his younger self in this timeline), her hatred for Bellatrix would always be alive and strong.

"As you well know, it is a degenerative curse," he continued. "The symptoms can be treated, but the curse itself is still very much at work, unless we come up with a way to reverse it."

Hermione frowned, desperation welling in her heart. "What about something like phoenix tears?" she said hopefully.

Octavius shook his head. "Doubtful. Even if you had access to something like that – which you may, since I hear that Albus Dumbledore keeps one as a familiar – phoenix tears can only heal injuries. They can bring someone back from the brink of death, and cure illnesses. But they cannot remove curses. This curse is progressive. Even if the phoenix tears helped with the symptoms and helped heal some of the physical damage done to his organs, the root of the curse would still grow."

"Like trying to kill ailanthus," Hermione said. "You can't just chop them down. They'll grow back. You have to chop them down, and then spray the stumps with poison."

"Similar, yes," he said, twining his fingers together. "The phoenix tears, and any other potions and treatments, would be the axe that cuts the tree down. But you won't be able to keep that tree from coming back unless you have that poison."

"And we don't have the poison," she said darkly.

"No," Octavius replied. "We don't. We might find it – that is exactly what I will be attempting to do for Mister Mallery, over the next few weeks. But until we can knock out the curse at its roots, we won't be able to get him better."

He lifted his wand, and a small fist-sized bubble rose up from his desk – she hadn't noticed it before. It was clear, but there was something inside it; a ball of black smoke.

"I was able to extract some of the curse from his body," he said, staring at the floating bubble with a clenched jaw. "I'll continue to run some tests, and then begin trials. I may need Mister Mallery to come back down here in the future."

"We're flexible," she said softly, staring at the dark cloud of smoke trapped within the bubble. She tore her eyes away and looked at him. He was watching her with those sharp blue eyes, puffing away at his pipe. She wondered what he was thinking.

"Thank you for agreeing to do this," she said, giving him a soft smile. She reached into her pocket, and pulled out four purses full of galleons. She returned them to their normal size, and placed them on his desk. "I suspect that Dumbledore has already given you payment – it's in his nature, after all – but I would be remiss to not offer something of my own. It's a thousand, and you'll receive five thousand more if you're able to figure something out."

He considered her for a moment, before he grabbed one of the heavy purses and slid it across the desk towards him. "That is no small sum, Miss Granger."

"Draco is the only person I have left in this world, Mister Barenbolm," she said sadly. "He's worth all this and more." She stood. "I'm going to go freshen up before dinner."

He nodded, still watching her with those sharp, silent eyes. "I'll see you at seven o'clock. When Mister Mallery wakes, I will send him your way. He may feel too tired to dine with us. Extracting a sample of the curse from his body will have taken a lot out of him. But we'll see."

"Thank you," she said graciously. With one last look, she turned and left him, looking forward to a bath.

One thing about the desert – you just couldn't escape the _sand._

* * *

oooo

The next morning at eight o'clock, they bid goodbye to Octavius Barenbolm and his friendly, quiet staff, and headed to the eastern part of the city.

The interesting part was: there was no wizarding district in the eastern part of the city. So, shrugging, they entered the muggle world once again, and this time, instead of notice-me-not charms, they simply disillusioned themselves so they would not forget about the other and get separated.

"Seems strange," she said after almost an hour of walking, as they wandered down a side alley, avoiding military troops. "For Dumbledore to send us this way."

He nudged her in the side. "Perhaps not so strange." He nodded towards a heavy wooden door that was tucked back into the side of the building they were walking next to. He shuddered. "Do you feel it?"

Hermione cocked her head. There was a… _buzzing._ Like a vibration of magic against her skin. "Faintly. I'm only especially attuned to Dark magic, though. The rest of it, not so much. You've always been more sensitive to that sort of thing. Auras and such."

Draco hummed. "Shall we check it out?" he asked. He was already moving towards the door.

She nodded, removing their disillusionment spells. "Might as well. Seems odd, for a shop to give out magical vibes in the heart of muggle territory. We're at least three miles from the nearest district."

He pushed the door open, and the bell rang. A woman behind a table looked up and greeted them with a mild smile.

"Welcome," she said, her voice smooth and heavily accented. She was not much older than them, and had very large, dark eyes. Her hair was mostly covered with a scarf. "What brings you here on this fine morning?"

Hermione smiled. "We just stumbled across your shop, thought it might be interesting to have a look."

The woman gestured around the store, which was crammed with tables and shelves full of every knick-knack that existed. It was overwhelming. "Please, help yourself. If you have any questions, feel free to ask."

"Thank you," Draco replied, and then put a guiding hand on Hermione's shoulder and cast a _Muffliato_ around them as they walked to the corner of the store, their eyes wandering.

"Do you think she's a witch?" Hermione asked lowly.

"No," he answered, cocking his head and leaning down to inspect a figurine of an elephant. "A muggle. The magical vibes we're feeling aren't coming from her – they're coming from some of the things on these shelves." He paused, and touched the porcelain figurine with his finger. He inhaled. "It's been…stained, almost. Saturated in magic."

Hermione frowned. "It's not Dark." It was not a question.

"No," he confirmed. "Just…old."

"Interesting," she said. Spying a table full of jewelry against the far wall, she left him to his own devices and stepped over to glance at the pieces. Some of them were lovely – delicately wrought with fine metals and jewels and carved ivory and wood – and some of them were garish, little more than costume jewelry.

A glint of something sparkly caught her eye. She looked down. A ring sat towards the middle of the table, surrounded by others of its kind; but she only had eyes for this one. She picked it up, and it hummed in her hand. She held it up to the light.

It was large – a man's ring, to be sure – and fashioned from gold. The band was thick, and on the top a large opal, about the size of a knut, sat imbedded into the gold. The opal itself was stunning: what they called a black fire opal, black and dark blue and green flecked throughout with speckles of yellow and red that glimmered subtly when the light changed. But it was what surrounded the stone that had her grinning. It was a thin gold band in the shape of a snake eating its own tail.

"An ouroboros."

Hermione turned as the shopkeeper approached her, looking at the ring in Hermione's hand.

"And an opal. A mysterious stone with many mystical properties." She held out her hand, and Hermione dropped the ring into it with little hesitation. The woman turned it over in her palm. "In the ancient days, magic users would wear these to store energy. They would feed some of their magic into the stone every day, and then in a time of need they could draw upon that energy to supplement their magic, if they had to perform a great feat of some sort." She looked at Hermione, and then shrugged, dropping the heavy ring back into Hermione's hand. "But of course, that's just an old wives' tale. The art of magic has been lost over the centuries, if it was ever real to begin with."

Hermione smiled ironically, and closed her hand over the ring. "I'd like to think that it's true. That magic does exist."

The woman winked, and ushered her up to the front. "I think so too. I like to believe that my shop brings a taste of magic to this mundane world."

Hermione fished around in her pocket for the small bag of coins that she kept there. She'd made sure to exchange some of her galleons for Moroccan francs that Octavius kept. She looked at the woman expectantly.

The dark eyed shopkeeper just smiled at her. "For you, one franc."

Hermione smiled, and dropped fifty francs on the table anyway. "Thank you," she said quietly. The woman handed her something, and she looked down. It was a thin golden chain with a single white opal pendant, about the size of one of her fingernails, in the shape of a teardrop. She sensed it was not cursed; she sensed that nothing in this shop was cursed. "It's lovely," Hermione said, holding it up and realizing that it was an anklet. She looked at the shopkeeper. "For me?" she asked.

The woman nodded. Hermione smiled, and then reached down to fasten it around her ankle. "Thank you very much. It's beautiful." Just then Draco approached, and she stuck her ankle out to show him.

"That's very kind," Draco said to the woman. He handed her a scarf and a pair of earrings, and put a bagful of francs on the table – more than enough to cover a scarf, even if it was beautifully woven and smelled of magic, and a pair of stud earrings, even though they were obviously real rubies. He looked at Hermione and shrugged. "The earrings for Raven, and the scarf for Sabrina." She grinned when he wouldn't meet her eyes at the second name, but said nothing to antagonize him.

After their transaction, Hermione and Draco bid the strange but generous shopkeeper goodbye, and turned towards the door.

Suddenly Hermione felt a hand on her left arm, the grip like a vise. She turned back in alarm, only to come face to face with the enigmatic storeowner. Hermione sucked in a breath – the woman's dark eyes were white and without pupils. Hermione jerked her face back, and reached for her wand.

" _When the time comes to trust, not everything will be as it seems,"_ the woman said in a low purr. Her eyes were unseeing, fixed on a spot on the wall behind Hermione's head; she felt Draco freeze behind her, and she stiffened. _"Beware the dark horse. You will be blind to his machinations, unaware of the threat."_ She paused to take a rattling breath. _"Forget not your past, but rely not upon old prejudices, for that path is riddled with misconceptions. Cave to neither your logic nor your instinct – a balance between the two will be needed to navigate the ocean of your future."_

She stopped, and Hermione's eyes went wide. She started to pull away, but the woman's grip on her arm did not loosen.

" _Watch for the letter N. And remember,"_ the woman continued softly, _"You are never alone. Never."_

Finally her hand loosened and fell to her side, and Hermione wrenched her arm back, holding it to her chest, her right hand clenching her wand in her pocket.

Draco put a hand on her shoulder. "We should go," he said quietly.

Hermione nodded mutely. They backed towards the door, but when Draco opened it, the woman spoke again.

" _Get out of the city,"_ she said, her eyes still milky white. Her voice was louder now, more desperate, more substantial and less ethereal. _"Trust no one. Do not let your guard down for one second."_ She coughed, and blinked, the haze over her eyes slowly fading. _"Go now. Do not delay."_

Grasping her arm, Draco pulled her out the door, and they fled.

* * *

oooo

"What the hell was that?" Hermione hissed when they were a few streets away. She looked shaken.

"I don't know, Hermione." Draco inhaled, his heart pounding. He'd felt exhausted last night and this morning, but over the past couple of hours he felt more energized, stronger. He didn't have to use his cane. "Obviously she's a seer."

"You said she was muggle," Hermione replied as they quickly crossed another street. Her voice had an accusatory tone that he didn't care for.

"She _was_ muggle," he said back, his tone cool. "I'm not an idiot. But did you really think that seers were limited to our race? The gift of foresight is bestowed upon many species, Granger. Muggles included. It's rare, but it happens." He checked his watch – it was quarter to eleven. They needed to get moving, go straight to the Ministry to catch their portkey.

Besides, the woman's words rang true in his head. He had a healthy respect for the art of divination, when practiced correctly – even if Hermione did not. Despite having opened her mind about many things over the years, Granger was still bound and determined to scoff at the imprecise practice.

Let it be said that Hermione Jean Granger could be as foolish as the rest of them. She was not immune.

She had to almost jog to keep up with his long strides. "Do you actually believe what she said?" she asked, her voice quieter.

"It's hard to fake a trance, Granger," he answered, his eyes scanning their surroundings as they moved like ghosts through the streets, keeping close to the walls and avoiding eye contact with any muggles they passed. "Especially for muggles. They have no means to change their own voice or eye color."

She did not reply, and they walked in silence until they got to the gate to the Third District. They shared a glance, before putting notice-me-not charms on themselves. "Don't stop for anything," he said seriously.

"I feel…unsettled," Hermione said as they waved their wands and passed through the gate. "What happened back there set my teeth on edge."

He nodded in response, scanning the area with shrewd eyes. "Me too. Keep your wand in your hand, Granger." He exhaled as they slowly began to move towards the next gate. "I have a bad feeling about this."

The next few minutes passed in tense silence as they passed through the crowded Third District into the even more crowded First District. People swirled around them in brightly colored robes, and he squeezed Hermione's left hand tightly in his right, his left hand tight around his blackthorn wand.

He accidentally bumped shoulders with a man in red, and the man turned towards them, caught Draco's eye and apologized. Draco waved him away and kept moving, his hand still caught in Hermione's as they scooted by a fountain.

Suddenly he froze. The man – he'd apologized. Looked Draco in the eye. Which was highly unlikely given the notice-me-not charms, unless he had purposefully spelled himself immune and was remaining alert for a particular reason – like watching out for someone he was intent upon finding –

He yanked Hermione down to the ground just as a jet of bright red light hit the fountain next to them, cracking the stone. Immediately the rest of the people in the square ducked and screamed, scattering to whatever shelter they could find as two more spells came flying towards them and bounced off of Hermione's hasty shield charm. A stunner.

"Move!" He grabbed her by the fabric of her shirt and hauled her up, and they sprinted towards where they knew the Ministry sat right around the corner, fighting through crowds of panicking people.

Men in red appeared from everywhere. Granger cast a bubble shield around them as Draco went on the offensive in a battle strategy they had practiced many times before.

"Grindelwald!" Hermione shouted, keeping her head down and blocking the multitude of hexes that bombarded them from every direction.

Indeed, they were openly wearing their uniforms, crimson hooded robes with the Deathly Hallows symbol sewn proudly into the chest in black thread.

"They're openly displaying their allegiance," Hermione panted as they rounded the corner with soldiers hot on their heels. She leapt over a cowering witch and sidestepped an unfortunate wizard who'd taken a stunner that was meant for them. "He means to try to take the Ministry."

He grunted in agreement, and clapped his free hand over a slice that appeared on his shoulder. "We've got to get to that portkey," he said breathlessly, deftly dropping one of the red-robed men with the killing curse just as they approached the steps to the Ministry.

As soon as he said it, wizards in official Auror robes poured from the front doors, and Hermione and Draco were grabbed and ushered up the steps as a battle began in earnest, Grindelwald's supporters casting to kill and Aurors doing the same. Draco looked back once more as they passed through the doors, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

One thing that stories never mentioned: just how _physical_ fighting was. Wands only did so much. The rest of it was clawing and biting and punching and strangling. It was not often just some elegant duel from a distance – it was up close and personal. It was _dirty._ He saw an Auror head-butt his opponent before the Auror in question went down with a knife to his chest, then saw another Auror get his opponent into a choke hold before using wandless magic to tear the man's throat open.

But that was reality. That was what people didn't understand. Getting your hands dirty in war couldn't be avoided – neither figuratively nor literally.

And then the doors were slamming closed, and they were met in the foyer by a kind-looking, red-cheeked man in bright, multicolored robes with a beautiful geometric pattern.

He shook both of their hands vigorously. "I am Salim Jabbour, Undersecretary to the Minister," he said in flawless English. "I would say welcome to Morocco, but it appears that might be inappropriate in light of recent events. Let's get you to your portkey – I don't want you to miss it."

Hermione smiled at him shakily. "We're so sorry for bringing this upon you, Secretary Jabbour. Thank you for your hospitality."

He smiled and put a hand on her back, and they all jumped a bit when something large hit the doors from outside. Looking back towards the entrance with a worried expression, Salim guided them out of the foyer. Five Aurors tailed them, wearing stoic expressions. Two of them exchanged words in Arabic, and then fell silent.

"While I do believe your presence here has been the catalyst for this attack, Grindelwald's hold on North Africa has been tightening for the last couple of years," Salim said as he showed them into a small room. "We've been expecting something like this."

Granger's brow furrowed as they gathered around what looked to be a Potions book in Arabic. Draco checked his watch – 11:58. No time to spare. "Will he take the Ministry?" Hermione asked as she placed a hand on the book; Draco followed suit.

Salim chuckled. "He will try. He won't be able to get through the wards. This establishment has been standing for a very, very long time." He stepped back and watched them from the doorway. "Please tell Mister Dumbledore that I said hello – "

There was a flash of green, and they jolted in shock as Salim toppled to the floor, his eyes wide in surprise even as the life left them. Hermione's breath hitched. Draco lifted his wand towards the rogue Aurors responsible for the murder, but it was too late – three out of five of them (the other two already dead, betrayed by their comrades) each placed a hand on the book, just as it activated and sucked them into space.

* * *

oooo

"I don't know, father. Tom doesn't tell me these things."

The lie rolled easily off of Thoros' tongue, and he internally rolled his eyes. In fact, he _did_ know what Tom planned to do after graduation, but he wasn't about to go spilling the plans of his Lord – especially since his Lord was far more powerful than anyone Thoros knew and had a special talent for punishment. Tom Riddle did not tolerate disloyalty.

He also didn't tolerate doing anything behind his back. Rosier was living proof of that right now, confined to bed with nasty (if not appropriate) wounds on his thigh and abdomen. Gavin had fully intended on taking what Tom had very obviously claimed for himself, and Tom had let his pretty new possession carve up the dense blond like a Christmas ham.

Theophilus Nott dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, staring at Thoros with disappointed hazel eyes – the only physical trait that Thoros did not share with his father. Besides having his mother's eyes, Thoros was a carbon copy of his old man, only younger.

"Have you thought any more about the offer from Malfoy?"

Thoros sneered. "I've no desire to work for the Malfoy family, father. Edmond intends on taking a spot in the company – I've set my sights on the government."

Theophilus nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "A worthy profession, to be sure – but not as much money."

He scoffed, his eyes jumping briefly to the door as Professor Burke entered. He frowned – the Hog's Head wasn't frequented by many teachers – but then turned his mind back to the conversation at hand. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that we _needed_ money. Is there something I should know?"

Theophilus smiled, and poured the last of the wine in his bottle into his chalice. "No, Thoros. I simply want you to be aware of all the facts."

Thoros shrugged. "I appreciate it. I've already been in correspondence with Justice Pebberly about joining the International Magical Office of Law and continuing my education there so I can get certified as an attorney. And then of course on my thirtieth birthday I will retire from law and take your place on the Wizengamot. But I don't wish to be idle and simply squander our money as an unemployed bachelor until I marry and have children and squander my money as an unemployed _husband."_ He paused, and took a sip of his butterbeer. "The IMOL is an excellent place to start building – attorneys become powerful and influential figures, if they play their cards right."

Theophilus looked pleased. "You'll keep me informed, of course." It was not a question. Thoros nodded. "And if you find out where Tom Riddle's career interests lie, I'd very much like to know."

Thoros bowed his head in acquiescence. "You'll be the first to know," he lied. "I'll – "

In a split second, hell broke loose in the pub, and Thoros froze. He was unable to react as Hermione sodding Granger reeled backwards into their table, sloshing their drinks, and then threw up a shield just in time to block a hex that came flying their way.

It was chaos. Professor Burke was knocked unconscious almost immediately, hit by a stray stunner; he slumped over the bar. Aberforth Dumbledore lifted his hand and cast a quick patronus, a goat leaping from the tip of his wand and disappearing through the wall, before he heftily pulled the professor's body over the top of the bar and had the presence of mind to shield Draco Mallery from what seemed to be a slicing hex before he was forced to hide behind the bar.

"Get down, you bloody fool!" Hermione hissed at him, placing a hand on his head and shoving it low behind their booth. Thoros took the hint, and slid down underneath the table, his father following suit.

He watched with wide eyes as horror unfolded in front of him. Granger and Mallery were both injured, casting and blocking as they dueled three dark-skinned men with sinister expressions.

Thoros heard Granger shout the cold, chilling words of the killing curse, and one of the men fell to the floor as she reeled backwards into the bar, wiping blood out of her eyes. She grinned at her remaining opponent, and it was a feral, cruel smile that had the hairs on Thoros' arms standing up.

Mallery dove out of the way as one of the men cast a killing curse in his direction, immediately turning and slicing the man's wrist with a poorly aimed hex just as the man managed to disarm him. They both dropped their wands at the same time, and Thoros watched in fascination; Mallery didn't even wait a beat before launching himself at the other man.

His opponent drew a knife from his belt, and Mallery agilely sidestepped the man's attempt to hack away at him, getting behind him and wrapping one arm around the darker man's shoulders as his other hand grabbed at the wrist that held the knife. Thoros recoiled as Mallery pivoted, holding the man in an iron grip before smashing the man's fist into the table above the two Notts again and again and again. He didn't even flinch when the man drove his heel back into Mallery's foot; Thoros thought he heard the faint crunch of bones.

Finally the man relented, his broken and bloody fingers dropping the knife in favor of scratching at Draco's rigid arm. Mallery hissed as the man's fingernails gouged the flesh of his forearm. He then snatched Theophilus' empty wine bottle and cracked it against the edge of the tabletop. Shards of glass rained down, and one of them scraped Thoros' hand.

And then, for the first time, Thoros witnessed death.

He flinched violently as, in a move as carefully controlled and flawlessly executed as a snake striking its prey, Mallery grabbed the man by the hair, pulled his head up, and jabbed the broken bottle into his exposed neck. Blood burst from the wound, spraying the immediate area with a shower of red. The look on the blonde's face chilled him to the core; it was a look of utter indifference, cool and calculating and uncaring. It was the face of a killer – someone who had trained for years and years to be able to slaughter enemies with as little thought as sneezing.

Thoros vaguely registered the fainting of his father, who tipped sideways and lay curled up underneath the table.

Draco let his opponent go, and the man scrabbled at his neck, desperately trying to save himself even as blood gushed from the torn flesh of his throat. Thoros reeled backwards as the man finally collapsed, falling only inches from where he cowered under the table. He swallowed as he watched the dying man's hand twitch, and then his eyes glazed over with death and his blood spread into a vast pool and soaked through the knees of Thoros' trousers.

He tore his eyes away, just in time to see Granger slam her forearm into the remaining attacker's neck, leaving him reeling. Then she flourished her wand, her hand dripping with blood, and a bright jet of purple light hit the man square in the chest.

The bright spell would have been rather beautiful, if it had not also been so ferociously violent. The fierce look on Granger's face had Thoros shrinking even farther back under the table.

The man fell to his knees, dropping his wand in favor of clutching his head. His eyes were bright purple. His screams were the screams of the tortured, the damned, the dying. It was a hideous sound, and Thoros covered his ears as he watched fluid start to pour from the man's ears, and then nose, and then his eyes – then, after less than thirty seconds, the tormented shrieks reached a crescendo, and his skull cracked open slightly before it was ripped apart in a burst of purple light. Whatever brain matter that was still relatively solid exploded, and the kneeling figure tipped forward to land on his face.

Or at least what was left of his face. The entire top half of his head was gone, leaving only a jaw, a mouth, one ear, and part of a nose, all seeping liquid that glowed with a faint violet residue.

Hermione was shaking – whether with anger or fear or pain, Thoros wasn't sure. Her eyes immediately honed in on him, and she reached under the table to pull him to his feet. He slipped on the blood, but managed to shakily step over the corpse of the man Mallery had murdered so pitilessly.

She led him with a guiding hand on his arm. Thoros went with her, feeling light-headed. He wondered where she was taking him until they were out the door – then, when the fresh autumn air hit his skin, Thoros promptly fell onto his knees and vomited.

When he was finished, he found himself leaning against the side of Granger's thigh, the fabric of her olive green pants rough against his cheek. Her hand stroked the top of his hair in a soothing motion, and he closed his eyes, trembling with shock.

He just couldn't…couldn't reconcile it. It was not at all like he'd imagined it would be. It was not just a few people flinging spells at each other, cutting each other down with the clean, cold killing curse.

No. It was nothing like that. It was dirty, and vicious, and barbaric. There was nothing civilized about it. It was not how he'd been taught to duel: the sophisticated exchange of spells from a distance, cast, block, cast, block. Granger and Mallery were certainly graceful – they moved with a surety and fluidity that spoke of a lot of training. But the fighting itself was fast, rough, and bloody. It didn't matter how poised and polished one was when locked in close combat with an enemy – teeth were still biting, nails scratching, bottles being broken and used as impromptu weapons. It was not stylish, nor did it speak of any kind of choreography. It was just raw, and brutal, and terrifying.

He closed his eyes and just knelt there on the cobblestones, a feverishly warm hand on his head and an equally warm leg pressed to his cheek. The fabric of Granger's trousers smelled like sunshine, and salt, and lavender.

Thoros decided he was just going to stay right here for a bit; pressed up against the leg of the most terrifying woman that ever existed. There was no one – not his father, not ten Aurors, not even Tom – that he'd rather have next to him; for was she not strong? Was she not experienced, and wild, and powerful? She held her pink wand loosely in her hand, and her blood ran down its length and dripped onto the ground, vibrant and shocking.

He had seen the fire in her eyes. He decided he wanted to be on the right side of that fire, because it was blazing hot and _inhuman_ and deadly, he was sure of it. So he would sit next to her, because he was in her corner – no matter who his Lord was.

Eventually someone pulled him to his feet, and the heavenly smell of the terrible creature that had comforted him faded slightly, only to be replaced by sandalwood and cracked pepper. There were a few quiet words exchanged, and then he was being lifted onto a stretcher and carried away.

oooo

* * *

 **I know it's a rather short chapter, but there will be plenty of Tomione interaction in the chapters to come. Please review!**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _She jolted as he ran a hand up her leg, and glared at him. "I don't enjoy it."_

 _His eyes were dark pools of amusement. He traced his callused thumb along one of her scars, and she shivered. "Liar."_

 **Love you guys!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Sorry for the wait, guys. :\**

 **A special thanks to spyrals and Gnoloo, who both have been great reviewers. I always appreciate the feedback.**

 **All right then, let's get to it. No time to waste!**

* * *

oooo

The beginnings and ends of shadow lie between the light and darkness and may be infinitely diminished and infinitely increased. Shadow is the means by which bodies display their form. The forms of bodies could not be understood in detail but for shadow. –Leonardo da Vinci

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify – so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish. –John Keats

Oh, and baby I'm fist fighting with fire  
Just to get close to you  
Can we burn something babe?  
And I run for miles just to get a taste  
Must be love on the brain  
That's got me feeling this way

It beats me black and blue but it fucks me so good  
And I can't get enough  
Must be love on the brain yeah  
And it keeps cursing my name  
No matter what I do, I'm no good without you  
And I can't get enough  
Must be love on the brain  
-"Love on the Brain" by Rihanna

* * *

oooo

"And there's nothing more you can tell me about what happened today, Miss Granger?"

Hermione tried her best not to glare at the Investigative Auror as she swung her bare feet back and forth, perched on the edge of a hospital wing bed. Damien Diggle was his name – the stupidly handsome son of the Diggles that owned the Quivering Quill. He was nice enough, she supposed, if not a little austere.

"I wasn't exactly taking notes, Mister Diggle," she said acidly, gracing him with a tight smile.

Tom, who stood nearby, snorted in amusement.

Diggle turned to look at the Head Boy. "Technically, Riddle, you aren't supposed to be here. This is a private interview."

Riddle's lips curved in what Hermione knew to be a condescending smile. Diggle surely wouldn't pick up on it, though. "I arrived in Hogsmeade with the Hogwarts staff a few minutes before you did, Mister Diggle. I saw the aftermath of what happened. Besides, it's all anyone is talking about. There's nothing about today's events that is a secret."

Diggle's jaw ticked, and his nostrils flared before he turned back to Hermione. "We'll be in touch."

Hermione nodded, and then the Investigative Auror turned and swept through the curtains surrounding her bed in the hospital wing, his navy robes billowing behind him. She caught a glimpse of Thoros Nott, who was sound asleep in the bed next to hers, and Draco, who was sitting on a bed towards the door, talking to another Auror.

As soon as Diggle left her, Madam Soranus bustled through the gap in the curtains, looking harried. "Oh, Miss Granger, dear, you look simply dreadful." She handed Hermione a potion. "For the pain. Bottoms up."

Hermione did as she was told, and looked up at Soranus expectantly. The matron cleared her throat. "I'll be back to check on you in a moment to heal your hurts, dear. I just need to go tend to Aberforth – he has a head wound that needs seeing to."

"I can get started on the healing, Madam," Tom said from his position against the wall. "At least deal with the cuts and bruises."

His arms were crossed, and despite the stress and pain Hermione was feeling she couldn't help but ogle the way it made his shirt tighten around his shoulders. He was in casual clothes, today, as it was a Sunday – a maroon sweater and a pair of khaki pants. The ensemble should have made him look less threatening than usual, with its soft fabrics and warm colors, but it only gave her the impression of a snake trying to disguise itself as a kitten. Here was a man who belonged in dark, cool colors and tailored, impeccably ironed fabrics.

However, Hermione would be lying if she claimed he was less handsome because of it. In fact, the abrupt change from his usual attire only served to draw her eyes to him even more.

God, it just wasn't _fair._

Madam Soranus smiled at him gratefully. "That would be wonderful, Mister Riddle. I know you're a skilled healer. I'll leave her in your capable hands, and will be back to check on her in a few minutes."

With one last smile in their direction, Soranus left, pulling the curtains most of the way closed behind her.

Hermione looked at Tom, and rolled her eyes. "Skilled healer, capable hands, blah blah blah…if I have to hear anyone else sing your fucking praises today, I'm going to scream," she sneered.

He chuckled, and she fisted her hands in the bed coverlet and stared stubbornly at the wall to her right as he came to stand in front of her, withdrawing his wand to begin healing her. He gripped her chin in his hand and tilted her face up and around, effectively capturing her eyes with his own. He lifted his wand to her temple, and her eye twitched as he cleaned the blood from her face and healed the cut on her forehead.

"I think, Miss Granger, that you get rather cranky when you're confined to the hospital." His voice was smooth and dark and amused, and the corners of his lips curved up ever so slightly. "If you can manage to sit still while I patch you up, I'll give you a lollipop after," he said with mocking condescension.

Boldly, she reached out and touched one of his hips. "That depends," she said, cocking her head and looking up at him with a smile. "What kind of lollipop will it be?"

She saw his eyes flash with heat at her innuendo, and her ego swelled with triumph. She tightened her grip on his hip, and saw his lips part slightly. From the corner of her eye she saw the front of his pants tighten, and smirked.

The cool hand that cupped her jaw slid down to where her dusty collared shirt met her neck. "Whatever kind you'd like, Hermione."

She swallowed. "I tend to favor cherry." She let her hand loosen around his hip and slide down his thigh before bringing it back to her lap.

He pulled his hand from her neck and crouched down in front of her. The smile on his face was positively sinful. "I'll see what I can do." He tapped a finger against her knee. "Are you particularly fond of these trousers?"

Hermione frowned. "No, not really. Why?"

She yelped as he flicked his wand, and the right leg of her pants tore at her upper thigh. He pulled the detached fabric from her leg as she huffed with indignation.

He carefully pressed the tip of his wand into the tender skin around an open wound on her upper thigh, his other hand gripping her knee. She swallowed at the feeling of his callused hands on her skin.

"The man whose head was mostly gone," he said quietly, looking up to meet her eyes. "What spell does that?"

She glared at him. "A bad one. One that I'm loath to share."

He rolled his eyes, bringing his attention back down to her leg as the skin knitted itself back together. She hissed in pain.

"I would very much like to see you cast it," Tom said. He cocked his head. "I'm fascinated by your enjoyment of watching people die hideous deaths."

She jolted as he ran a hand up her leg, and glared at him. "I don't enjoy it."

His eyes were dark pools of amusement. He traced his thumb along one of her scars, and she shivered. "Liar."

She frowned. He continued. "Why else would you have come up with all of these spells? Most people just say _Avada Kedavra_ and are done with it. So why search for more ways to kill?"

She exhaled heavily, and met his eyes. She let her mask drop, let her weariness show on her face. "Most of us wish for a quick, easy death," she said evenly. She smiled sadly. "Few of us deserve it."

She held her arm out, and he rolled her blood-soaked sleeve up to tend to the deep cut on her wrist. "I've always had a knack for innovation and discovery," she continued blithely. "After I lost my family and was captured and tortured, something shifted. That's when my patronus changed. But something warped, and all I could think about was revenge. All I wanted to do was hurt the evil people that had torn my life apart. So I did what I do best, and studied. And I came up with some truly horrendous curses." Her nostrils flared. She did not look away from his dark gaze. "I don't enjoy it. But it is satisfying, in a way." She shrugged. "Besides, as much as I appreciate the cold efficiency of the killing curse, it gets to be rather…boring. That's like simply relying on the _Cruciatus_ for torture. There are so many other methods to explore."

He raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "You truly don't belong in Gryffindor, do you?"

Hermione snorted. "No one person belongs to just one house," she drawled. "In fact, I think this sorting system is woefully inadequate – not to mention that children are sorted too early."

He chuckled and stood. "Is there anything in this world that you _are_ satisfied with?"

She cocked her head, considering. "I like food," she said slowly. "And alcohol. And tea and coffee – whoever started that trend was on point." She grinned when he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "And I'm particularly fond of the way your uniform shirt stretches across your back when you hunch over your desk to take notes. In general, as a woman, I am appreciative of the male form. I have no complaints."

She wanted to laugh out loud as a blend of discomfort and satisfaction flickered in his eyes before it disappeared. She reckoned he would never get used to the forwardness with which she spoke. Innuendo and flirting was one thing – bluntness was another. It tickled her.

"Oh, and beaches," she said wistfully. "I like the ocean. The sight, the sound, the smell – it's lovely."

He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "That's it? Food, men and the sea?"

She hummed. "I think dragons are rather neat."

He sighed. "Now you're just being contrary." He gestured to her torso. "I noticed you favoring your right side."

Hermione shifted. "I may or may not have cracked one of my ribs again. Draco's fault, really. He shoved me to the ground like a brute." She shrugged. "Of course, the alternative was a stunner to the face, so I suspect I'll forgive him for manhandling me."

Tom frowned. "Let me see."

Feeling her face heat, Hermione stood and untucked her shirt from her pants, lifting it up to reveal a red bruise on her ribcage that was slowly darkening to purple; reminiscent of a day not so long ago when they stumbled across each other in a first floor bathroom.

He boldly reached up to skim his fingers across her ribs, and goosebumps rose in their wake. He smiled. "Cold?" he asked smugly.

Her nostrils flared. "No," she denied easily. She would not make excuses for her body's reaction to him. That was childish, something that insecure girls did to avoid potential embarrassment – like crying and trying to excuse it by saying there was something in their eye. But the time for embarrassment was long past – he knew of her attraction to him – and she was too old and impatient for that kind of game anyway. No; the game they were playing was very much an adult game, unfettered by the posturing and frivolity and innocence of youth.

It was a dance between two people who knew what they wanted. The only uncertainty lay in the fact that neither of them wanted to give up control. _That_ was the game: the sexual tension was obvious and could be easily resolved – the _real_ struggle was the power play.

He did not smile, just stared at the skin of her abdomen in something that looked a bit like awe. He traced the line of the purple scar that crossed her torso, flat and smooth, like a stain underneath the skin. She shuddered involuntarily, her cheeks hot. With his left hand around her waist, he brought his wand up to run it over her damaged rib. Warmth suffused her skin, and she winced momentarily as she felt the bone heat and then start the healing process.

When he was finished, he tucked his wand away and let her shirt fall back down to cover her midriff. Just as she was about to sigh with relief, his hands came up to frame her neck and jaw, tilting her head back. She brought her hands up to his arms, but was unable to find the brainpower to actually use them. It seemed like any time he touched her, she was unable to think properly. He looked down at her, less than a foot away, and she was mesmerized by the glint of bluish-grey that shone from the black pools of his eyes.

"I wonder at your eyes," he murmured lowly, almost as if to himself. "It's like a fireworks display…I never know what color to expect next." His fingers were delightfully large, and rough. He was so much taller, so much broader than her. His hands dwarfed her jaw, and his chest was wide and flat and she itched to run her hands underneath his sweater. Hermione was a formidable witch, and far from helpless – but _physically, visibly, perceptibly,_ he was so much stronger, so much bigger.

She was not used to feeling so small. But strangely enough, it did not make her feel weak – it made her feel cherished. It was arousing. There was something about being around a physically intimidating male specimen that made her feel breathless, desirable. It was a heady drug.

And, like any drug, it could be dangerous.

"And I wonder at your boldness," she said, her voice cool but not quite steady.

He chuckled, and smiled down at her wickedly. "Perhaps if you were at all able to push me away, I'd be a tad more hesitant, and subtle." He slid one of his hands into the hair at the nape of her neck, and brought his face down to rub his nose along her cheek. "But feeling you tremble under my hands is proving to be rather addictive," he said into her ear, his voice almost a whisper. "And all I can think about when I see you is how much I want to strip every last article of clothing from your body and touch you anywhere I like."

She could not help the small noise that escaped from her throat, or the way her whole body quivered, or the way her womb clenched with arousal. And she wasn't even embarrassed when he huffed out a laugh of triumph against her temple.

She was in serious trouble.

"Oh my God, Hermione – "

Tom jerked away from her as the curtains were pulled back, and she squeaked in surprise. Sabrina stood there with her mouth open, her cheeks slowly reddening as she realized what she had interrupted.

"Oh Merlin, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize – "

"It's fine," Hermione said sharply, her voice not quite steady. "Tom was just leaving."

He hummed in agreement, and went to move away. "Make sure you get more pain potions from Soranus. That rib is going to hurt like a bitch for a few hours."

She nodded, meeting his dark eyes one last time, flushing at the desire she saw there; her heart pounded, and Fawkes shifted, equal parts uncomfortable and satisfied. Then Riddle turned, and strode out of the hospital wing. She and Sabrina both watched him go, and when the door was swinging closed behind him, the brunette whirled on Hermione.

"Ugh, Hermione, I am so sorry," Sabrina said, looking harried. She closed the curtains back to the way they were before.

"It's fine," Hermione said shakily, sitting back down on the bed as she felt her knees weaken. "It's nothing."

Sabrina crossed her arms and frowned. "You can't use that excuse anymore, Hermione. Not after what I just saw. It's obviously not just 'nothing'."

Hermione looked away. "It's not nothing," she confirmed quietly, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "But I'm not sure what it is. So I would appreciate it if you would keep what you saw to yourself."

"Of course!" Sabrina said earnestly, sitting down on the bed next to her. "He is so swoon-worthy," she continued dreamily. "You lucky girl."

Hermione stiffened. She wasn't sure that 'lucky' was the term she would use to describe teenage Lord Voldemort's fascination with her.

Suddenly more people appeared, ducking through the small gap in the curtains.

"Blimey, Hermione – they just started letting students in to see you," Ignatius said, looking flushed, as if he'd run all the way here.

"What happened?" Bertha asked next, sitting down on her other side.

Pepper grinned at her. "I heard you kicked some arse."

Hermione felt overwhelmed when Felicity and Temple and Magnus joined the group. Magnus pulled the curtains back all the way, and Hermione looked over to see Draco talking to Raven and Lyall. Edmond sat next to Thoros' bed, where the poor sod was still out cold; someone had tried to clean him up as best they could, but he still had sticky patches of blood in his hair and skin.

Magnus came to crouch in front of her, and Hermione resisted the urge to pull her feet up and scoot back on the bed. After Tom, close proximity to another man felt odd and uncomfortable – and _wrong_. She wondered at what that might mean. She couldn't help but feel some dread over the prospect.

"What happened down there, Hermione?" Magnus said, his blue eyes sincere. Her leg jumped when he put a hand on her bare knee, where Tom's fingers had been not even ten minutes ago.

Hermione frowned. "Nothing too exciting, really. Trust me. You don't want to hear the gory details." She gestured to Nott with her thumb. "Look at poor Thoros."

Magnus rolled his eyes. "Nott's got a weak stomach."

Hermione's gaze narrowed. "He watched a man get a broken bottle shoved into his throat, and then saw another man's brain liquefy and explode." She snorted. "Trust me, anyone not used to seeing things like that would be puking their guts up." She paused. "You can imagine seeing someone killed easily in your mind, but the actual experience itself is something completely different. Fresh blood is surprisingly warm. Most people tend to relieve themselves when they die, so the smell is lovely mixture of feces and urine and blood and sweat. I've been doing this for a long time, and even I have the urge to vomit sometimes. It's disgusting. So don't judge Nott too harshly. I think he handled it rather well." She stood, inexplicably irritated. Magnus' hand fell from her knee. "Thank you all so much for coming to check on me," she said. "It was really nice to see you. But I'm really tired, and very much would like to take a bath."

"Of course," Pepper said, reaching out a squeezing her hand. "We're just glad you're okay."

Hermione squeezed back. "Thanks guys. Sorry to leave you like this. I'm just not very good company right now. I'll see you at dinner tonight, though." She looked at Sabrina. "Draco got you something," she said with a small smile. "Walk with me?"

Sabrina blushed furiously. "Of – of course."

Hermione tucked her hand through the taller girl's arm, and they waltzed over to where Draco sat in a wheelchair, flanked by Raven and Lyall. He looked exhausted.

"You look like you could use a nap," Hermione said jokingly.

He nodded wearily, and held up a bag of potions. "Madam Soranus gave me these – a couple of them are for you. For pain, and sleep."

"That sounds lovely," she replied. She went to take the handles of his wheelchair, but Lyall beat her to it, winking at her. She nodded her head in thanks. "Raven, would you like to walk with us, too?"

Raven sighed. "I suppose I don't have anything better to do, except go back to the Slytherin common room and brood with the rest of my house."

Hermione giggled, and caught Draco's eye. He shrugged – Slytherins _were_ good brooders, it was true. "Well I'm not getting any younger," he grouched, sinking down low into his chair, glaring at his still-healing broken foot. "And I'm cranky, because I feel like I have sand in my nose and ears and between my toes. So let's get going, shall we?"

* * *

oooo

Hermione sighed and sank deeper into the tub, relishing in the smell of lavender. She'd become addicted to the flower while in Provence –the smell, the taste, the color. She still had some candied lavender in her bag, and she'd grab a piece every now and then to nibble on.

She submerged herself into the tub so that only her face sat above the water, her chin skimming the bubbles. Her muscles were still trying to relax – not only from the stress of the violence she'd participated in today, but the anxiety that Riddle had caused when he'd touched her so familiarly in the hospital wing. Thinking back to it, she shivered. The hunger she'd seen in his eyes was terrifying in its intensity. She could still feel his hands on her skin. Once again, she felt completely overwhelmed and outmatched, and had to force herself to think of other things.

As anticipated, Sabrina had loved the scarf, oohing and aahing over its softness and the vibrancy of its colors. She had blushed furiously when Draco had given it to her, but to her credit remained sensible. Hermione had seen many a woman swoon over Draco before – she was not so sure she hadn't almost done it a time or two herself, if she was being honest. But Sabrina was rather good at maintaining her composure, and Hermione knew that it made Draco like her all the more.

Raven had smiled at the earrings, but then had narrowed her eyes on Draco and Hermione. "They're _red,"_ she'd said disdainfully, humor bleeding subtly into her words. "I can't be seen wearing these in public. Imagine what my house will think of me." Sabrina had then pointed out that the king of Slytherin, their own Head Boy, was wearing maroon today, so surely Raven could get away with a pair of studs? The Slytherin had smiled, appreciative of Sabrina's reasoning, and had put the rubies on with a quiet thanks. Lyall had jokingly complained about not receiving anything, and Draco had replied that he had plenty of sand in his shoes that he'd be willing to part with.

Then the three unlikely friends – two Gryffindors and a Slytherin – exited Draco's quarters, leaving them alone and exhausted in complete silence. Hermione had helped Draco bathe, considering his exhaustion and the tenderness of his foot, and then had seen him safely to his bed to nap while she changed the bath water and tended to her own cleanliness.

She did not have any sense of how much time had passed when Draco knocked quietly and then opened the door. She looked up at him, idly playing with the lavender scented bubbles that foamed across the top of the water.

His face was grave. "Dumbledore just stopped by," he said solemnly. "He didn't stay. He just wanted to let us know that they've received news that the Moroccan Ministry has fallen. The Minister is dead."

Hermione sighed sadly, looking down at her toes. "And so Grindelwald sinks his talons even deeper into the wizarding world," she said bitterly.

"Hermione."

She looked back up. Draco's face was twisted with something that looked like regret. "Barenbolm was killed in his home."

And then Hermione put her face in her hands, and wept.

oooo

* * *

 **I know that this was a short chapter. I'm having some trouble feeling motivated to write lately. For some reason the last couple of weeks have been really depressing, and it's just completely zapped my energy and enthusiasm.**

 **You know what would help, though? Reviews. Lots of reviews. ;)**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _Tom glanced to the side as Mallery tapped his cane on the ground. "Hermione," the blond drawled, his eyebrow raised in amusement._

" _Yes, Draco?" she replied, twirling gracefully away from a curse and parrying with one of her own._

" _Didn't your mum ever teach you not to play with your food?"_

 _The grin on her face was as wicked as a shark's. "She must have forgotten that particular lesson."_

 **Next chapter will be up in a couple of weeks. Again, thank you all for your patience! And please check out my new Dramione,** _ **The Zone Where Black and White Clash.**_ **Love you guys!**

 **Giraffe :)**


	26. Chapter 26

**This is not a new chapter. Merely an old one, but the ending has been updated. Sorry. Change of plans!**

* * *

oooo

The two most powerful warriors are patience and time. –Leo Tolstoy

If you have not been a villain at a certain point in time, you will never be a hero. And the day you are a hero, you may become a villain the next day. –Carlos Ghosn

Time is the school in which we learn, time is the fire in which we burn. –Delmore Schwartz

Can you save  
Can you save my, save my  
Can you save my heavy dirty soul?  
Can you save  
Can you save my, save my  
Can you save my heavy dirty soul?

-"Heavydirtysoul" by Twenty Øne Piløts

oooo

Tom flew into his dorm, slamming the portrait closed behind him and stalking up the short flight of stairs to his room, kicking his shoes off as he went. He hastily stripped the clothes from his body, throwing his maroon sweater and khaki pants onto the bed, followed by his boxers and socks.

Immediately he strode into the bathroom and turned the shower to its coldest setting before he climbed in. He shivered violently as the stream of water hit his pale skin, the muscles bunching in his back and shoulders. He gritted his teeth.

He stood under the spray for five minutes before he decided that it was a futile effort.

Tom cursed and snarled, and then turned the faucet, and the water heated almost immediately, allowing him to relax. Reluctantly, he looked down; he glared at his stubborn erection, narrowing his eyes in annoyance as he wrapped his hand around it. He shuddered, and closed his eyes. He huffed angrily as Granger's face swam in his vision, her lips, her hair, her mind-boggling eyes. He remembered what it had felt like to touch her, to have his hands slide over the flesh of her slim waist and flat stomach. He remembered the giddiness that he'd felt when she'd trembled at his touch, goosebumps rising in the wake of his fingers. He remembered how her eyes had darkened with desire.

Groaning, he palmed his cock in a punishing grip and began to pump his fist up and down, the warm water of the shower facilitating his movement. He stared at the flushed head of his member, picturing Hermione kneeling before him, lips parted wide to take him into her mouth.

He imagined what it would be like. How would it be with her, in the bedroom – with that infuriating mixture of bravado and nervousness? The inexperience that she would brush aside with one defiant look, one clenched jaw, one flash of those beguiling eyes? Where would the innocence end and the confidence begin?

He knew she had some experience. She'd been married – as much as he hated to think about it. But how often had she used her mouth to pleasure a man? How far did her carnal knowledge extend? Would she take his cock into her mouth agonizingly slowly until the head hit the back of her throat? Would she begin with tentative licks, running the tip of her tongue over his slit and around his frenulum? How far would she be able to take him in? Would he be able to feel her nose against his pelvis as she sucked every inch of him into the hot, wet cavern of her mouth?

Surely not. He would be too large for that. No – she would get most of the way down, and then wrap one hand around the base of his member and twist with the lightest of pressures as her other hand wrapped around his hip for balance. He would put his hands on the back of her head, tangle them in her hair, struggle for self-control as he longed to hold her head steady and fuck her mouth, taking his own pleasure as he wished; but he would somehow manage to keep himself in check, letting her take the lead.

He took a shuddering breath, and moved his hand faster, more frantically, imagining himself pushing her up against the shower wall, sinking into her wet heat, clapping his hands onto her buttocks and hitching her up against his body as he pounded into her. Her head would fall back with a clunk against the tile, and her eyes would be closed, her mouth parted in rapture as she breathed out unintelligible moans. And she would start to chant his name over and over and over again – that stupid, common name that sounded so special coming from her lips – and then she would shatter in his arms, and her warm channel would clamp down on his cock, and he would groan and swear and sink his nails into the flesh of her arse as he shot his load into her, following her over the cliff that she had so insidiously pulled him toward.

Tom sank to his knees as his powerful orgasm crashed over him in waves, his ejaculate mixing with the water that swirled down the shower drain. He hung his head underneath the spray, closing his eyes and steadying himself against the wall, uncaring of the discomfort of his knees pressing into the hard tile floor.

"Oh fuck," he whispered to himself, staring down at his softening cock.

He was in trouble.

* * *

oooo

"How are you feeling?"

Hermione sat gingerly down in the chair beside Thoros' bed, folding her hands in her lap.

The handsome boy looked up at her from where he lie propped up against the pillows, watching her with tired blue-green eyes. He looked so much like his son, it was uncanny. She was only just now getting to the point where she did not automatically reach for her wand when she spotted him out of the corner of her eye. She wondered what would happen in his life that would turn him into such a bitter old man. The young man lying in the bed across from her was not someone she would peg to turn out as a mean, abusive father.

Of course, in her timeline, as Tom had gotten darker and darker with age, so had his followers. And Thoros was devoted.

Except…there was something else, now; something in his eyes when he looked at her, equal parts wary and awed and grateful. Thoros was generally very good at hiding his emotions, but the uncertainty in his gaze gave him away.

She wouldn't swear on it, but she was almost positive that they were now tied by a life debt. Which could be spectacularly useful. The question was, if she did something to provoke Tom enough that he tried to kill her, would Thoros be magically obligated to step in? Was it such a life debt that he would go against the man he was so hopelessly loyal to in order to protect her?

A musing for another time, perhaps.

"Groggy." His voice was hoarse. "Madam Soranus gave me something for the shock that knocked me out. She wants to keep me another night, but I'll be fine to go back to classes tomorrow morning."

Hermione nodded and sighed. "This is the second time I've killed in front of a student," she said softly. "I'm sorry you had to see it."

Thoros shrugged. "You saved my life," he said bluntly. "Plus, I know that there are far worse things in the world than what I saw today. I've known for a long time how evil people can be and how violent they can get."

"It's different seeing it first hand, though," she said quietly.

His eyes flicked over to meet hers, and then looked back down, dropping to where his fingers fiddled with a loose thread on the blanket. "Yes," he confirmed. "It is."

They were silent for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say. Finally Hermione sighed, and stood up. "Anyways, I just came to see how you were doing. I'm glad that you weren't hurt." She paused. "How's your father?"

Thoros smiled. "Nothing hurt but his pride," he said amusedly. He looked up at her. "Thanks, Granger. I mean really. I'd probably be dead if you hadn't cast that shield charm."

She shrugged, and gifted him with a rare, genuine smile. "I do my best to keep all people safe, but especially my friends." She reached down to pat his shoulder. "And call me Hermione, please."

Thoros nodded, looking pleased and a bit pink in the cheeks.

And so she left him to head down to dinner, and was glad that there was no one around to see the slow, satisfied grin that spread across her face.

Hook, line, sinker.

* * *

oooo

The next week passed swiftly and uneventfully. Dueling Club on Monday night was canceled due to all of the upheaval over what happened in the Hog's Head, and Hermione and Draco continued to reap both the benefits and the pitfalls of increased fame.

She had very little contact with Tom except for in class, and quite frankly it was a relief. However, when they did happen to be in one another's company, he would always make sure to touch her. A brush of his knuckles against her neck, a hand at the small of her back, a tug of her jumper; at first she thought he was doing it on purpose, but by Friday she suspected much of it was just impulse. Sometimes it was like he wasn't _able_ to resist putting his hands on her or brushing his body against hers.

And it was _excruciating._

Sometimes Fawkes would get so restless at Tom's proximity that she would flush and have to go to the loo to splash her face. Sometimes she would just freeze for lack of a better response. And, to her shame, there were a couple of occasions when she found herself doing the same thing with him. She had grabbed his bicep, once, and then pushed on his back so she could squeeze by him in potions, and had absentmindedly brushed a bit of flaked snakeskin from his chest.

If anyone noticed the tension between them, no one said anything. Hermione was impressed with their restraint – because there was no way in _hell_ that they _hadn't_ noticed. She knew they probably whispered things behind Hermione's back, but no one had approached her about it. She guessed that some people were afraid of Tom and his cronies, and some people were afraid of her, and so they didn't cross those boundaries. Some of it was still just overshadowed by the events on Sunday, and the Aurors that lingered around Hogsmeade. Even the friends in her little group were surprisingly mum about it, though she knew that they sensed the ever-growing strain in the interactions between Tom and her. Even Iris had been mild and cooperative, and though her eyes were always that deceptively gentle shade of blue, Hermione knew that there was quite a bit of thought and calculation that was going on behind them.

"Stop it."

Hermione jolted in her chair as Draco appeared in front of her. He pulled her lip from where she'd been chewing it, and when he drew his hand away his thumb had a spot of blood on it. He threw her an exasperated look, and plopped down in the chair to her right, resting his cane across his knees.

"Your anxiety is making your magic flare," he said quietly, watching as more and more students filled the hall for Dueling Club. "Keep a lid on it, or people will start to notice."

Hermione sighed, and leaned her head back against the back of her chair. "Sorry," she said distractedly, watching the rain fall steadily outside. It _tap-tap-tapped_ against the old castle windows, blurring her view out onto the dark grounds. It was a gloomy Saturday night, and the weather outside reflected her mood: pensive, antisocial and a bit irritable.

Malfoy's pale fingers tapped out a rhythm on the arm of his chair. He looked just as unenthusiastic as she felt. They were only at Dueling Club because they no longer had a reason to avoid it. They'd run out excuses; and, as much as it made Hermione feel rather childish, she had something to _prove,_ damn it.

She wanted to hand Dolohov's pride to him on a silver platter.

She did not move at all when she felt Magnus sit down on her other side, nor when Lyall gave her ponytail an affectionate tug, nor when she smelled the subtle hints of Riddle's aftershave as he wandered over towards them, his hands in his pockets. She felt the heat of his eyes hit the side of her face, and she tensed as he sat down on Draco's other side.

"Blimey, Hermione," Lyall said from behind her, leaning forward so he could speak into her ear in low tones. "This is a bigger crowd than I've ever seen here."

Ignatius, Raven and Pepper came to sit in the second row as well, and she heard Pepper snort. "They've all come to watch you and Draco kick some arse," she said, the ever-present spark of mischief gleaming in her dark eyes. "No pressure, of course."

Hermione snorted. Suddenly she felt her mood lift just a bit. She turned and rolled her eyes at them. "And who, exactly, is going to volunteer to get their ass kicked and be humiliated in front of a third of the student body?"

Raven shrugged. "I'd like to try. I think a lot of us would." The rest of them nodded their heads, though Magnus looked a bit pinched and Lyall looked more than a little eager. "It's a chance for us to learn, isn't it?" she said, pulling her curly hair back into a ponytail that mirrored Hermione's. "I think you'll find that quite a few of us wouldn't mind getting our asses handed to us, simply for the sake of getting better at dueling."

"It's just a matter of letting go of our pride, and not being afraid to admit that we aren't the best in the room," Ignatius said. He lowered his voice. "Not all of us think that way, though. I imagine there are quite a few people that would like to prove themselves better than you. Imagine the status and respect that would come with out-dueling the trained soldiers who've been doing it for years."

"I imagine it would be quite the heady feeling," she murmured. She leaned back behind Draco's head, and Tom caught her eye. Her lips curved. "But there are only two people that I'm truly worried about."

Tom raised an imperious eyebrow, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "You flatter me, Miss Granger," he said, using her surname teasingly. "But who is the second?"

Draco shifted in his seat. "I am," he said bluntly. "Hermione and I are very evenly matched."

A hush fell over the room as Merrythought entered the hall, Professors Burke and Slughorn trailing behind. Anyone who hadn't found a seat by then abruptly selected a chair, tracking the professors with their eyes.

As Slughorn and Burke sat, Merrythought climbed the stairs to the dueling floor, and raised her voice. "As usual, there are no Dark spells allowed. First and second years can observe only, and third, fourth, and fifth years can only duel someone of the same age. Sixth and seventh years, you are permitted a bit more freedom with your arsenal, but remember: nothing fatal, nothing that causes permanent damage, and nothing irreversible. If you choose to use a few nastier hexes, make sure they can be healed." She looked around at them once more. "Any questions?"

No one said anything. Merrythought nodded. Her eyes scanned the room. "Mister Rosier," she said, her grey eyes sharpening on the huge Slytherin. "Would you care to start us off?"

His mouth tightened, and he glared around the room, stalking up the steps with all the grace of a troll. Hermione's lips twitched. She imagined his leg was still not quite right. She looked down at her feet as his bright blue eyes scanned the crowd, and could feel the weight of his hatred for her when his gaze landed on her. She struggled not to grin.

"An opponent?" Merrythought said, looking around the room.

Draco stood slowly from his chair, his cane in one hand, his wand held loosely in the other. He gave Merrythought a charming smile. "Do you mind if I give it a shot, Professor?" he asked sweetly.

Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth slackened in assent. She nodded. "If you feel up to it, Mister Mallery."

Malfoy smiled and mounted the stairs, limping only slightly. Today had been a good day for him. They'd spent the morning running and doing yoga out by the lake (the things she did for love), and he had eaten heartily and hadn't lagged at all.

Rosier sneered and rolled his eyes, looking at Merrythought with a scowl. "He's got a bloody _cane,_ Professor. That's hardly fair. Surely you can give me more of a challenge." He roved his eyes over Draco with apparent disdain. "I wouldn't want to put any more strain on Mallery's health."

Draco's eyes danced in amusement. Hermione crossed her arms and brought one fist up to her chin, hiding her smile. Tom blinked, his face unreadable.

Merrythought's eye twitched at Rosier's language, and then she looked at Draco. "Mister Mallery? He does have a point."

Draco looked at her beseechingly. "I've got a lot of pent up energy, Professor. If Mister Rosier beats me, it won't be the end of the world."

Dolohov made a noise in the back of his throat from where he sat next to Tom. "If?" he muttered skeptically.

Tom's expression never changed. "Hush," he said mildly. "Perhaps you should stop contemplating someone else's impending failure and humiliation and start thinking of your own."

Dolohov's swarthy complexion was not prone to blushing, but Hermione saw his eyes flash in resentment and embarrassment. He crossed his arms and looked around Tom to stare at Hermione. She observed him from the corner of her eye, but did not give him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze. After a moment he gave up and turned back towards where Draco and Gavin were facing off on the dais.

"I'll go easy on you," Rosier said with a taunting sneer. Some of the Slytherin girls tittered in amusement. Stupid cows.

Draco looked sincere. "I appreciate that."

Hermione wanted to burst out laughing, but she refrained, keeping her eyes trained on her best friend. He stood casually, leaning gently against his cane. They bowed to each other, and only Hermione knew Malfoy well enough to know when he was mocking someone.

She turned her eyes to Rosier as they pivoted and stepped away from each other three times. Then they whirled, and it began.

It was embarrassingly quick. Draco remained in his place leaning against his cane, looking dreadfully bored. In a minute and a half, he had Rosier disarmed, petrified, and bound in ropes. He hadn't even moved. He'd barely even moved his wand arm – had really just twisted his wrist around a bit. Hermione leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. She rested her forehead in her hands, and her body shook with silent laughter.

When she managed to get ahold of herself, she looked back up. Rosier was redder in the face than she'd ever seen him. He looked angry as Draco released him from the spells and his restraints fell away. He looked over to Tom, his eyes hot with fury; but whatever he saw in his Lord's cool stare was enough to have his eyes grow frigid and resentful. He glared at Draco, and then huffed and stalked off the stage, his cheeks still pink as the audience applauded. Tom was still expressionless, but he somehow radiated disappointment. Dolohov looked disgusted. Thoros looked amused, and Edmond looked positively gleeful. Conan, as usual, was cooler than any cucumber she'd ever seen.

Merrythought was typically very neutral in her treatment of all students, no matter the house, but Hermione saw the brief flash of vindictive pleasure in her eyes. Gavin Rosier was one of those students that _everyone_ despised – even Professor Burke was disdainful of him, and Slughorn's mannerisms around the blond suggested that he only included Rosier in Slug Club activities because of his last name. While physically intimidating and quite handsome, he wasn't particularly intelligent, nor was he particularly magically powerful or talented. He was an excellent beater for the quidditch team, but resented the fact that Alphard Black was captain and not he.

Still, it wouldn't be wise for her to underestimate him – he had connections, after all, and he _had_ managed to get the drop on her last weekend after Slughorn's party. And now he surely festered with a deep anger towards her, and would likely be looking for revenge. The question was: would he be angry enough to risk Tom's wrath? She had, quite literally, scarred him for life. She had humiliated him in front of his friends, and, given the size of his ego, that was probably an even harder thing to come to terms with than the physical damage. But would he want revenge so much he would risk going against Riddle's very obvious fascination with her? Tom was used to being obeyed. He wouldn't take kindly to one of his minions working behind his back.

And then she thought of something else: could she force Rosier's hand in such a way that would alienate him from the Knights of Walpurgis, and from Tom? Could she subtly nudge him towards the edge of the cliff until he fell over into the pit of his own betrayal? She could prepare the noose…then all he would need to do, with a little encouragement, was walk into it. He would hang himself.

Hm. She would have to think of a plan.

"I think I speak for everyone when I say very well done, Mister Mallery," Merrythought said, her lips pulling to the side in what Hermione thought was a smile. "An excellent start to tonight's club. Do we have any challengers?"

Draco twirled his cane around deftly in his hands, looking the very picture of Malfoy arrogance. She stifled a giggle. It was good, sometimes, to see the _old_ Draco Malfoy shine through. He'd matured and grown so much over the years, and war left little room for ego, so it always made her smile to see the haughty expression and smug smirk that he would've given in their school days.

Sometimes it seemed like those days were decades ago. Like a dream, almost.

No one in the hall stood up, or even shifted. Draco's smirk shifted into a grin. He bowed to the professor respectfully. "I think that's my cue, Professor," he drawled. "Although I might try to goad Granger into it later on."

Merrythought waved him off the stage, and he stepped down the stairs and retook his seat next to Hermione.

"Nice," she said simply, slanting him a look.

"Yes, very well done, Mallery," Tom said quietly, his eyes flickering to the left. There was something so sinister in the way he said it, though, that had her spine tingling.

"Thanks," Draco said back. He did not even deign to look at the dark-haired Slytherin next to him, something that had Tom's back stiffening. Hermione kept her eyes trained on the stage, resisting the urge to ogle the muscles in his back. He was wearing a crisp white button-up and a dark blue sweater vest with no tie, and nicely tailored charcoal pants and shiny black shoes. Hermione wondered if he'd only recently started dressing well, now that he'd managed to get his claws on his father's estate. She was sure that he could simply snap his fingers and any of his followers would lay their Gringotts key at his feet, but his pride would never allow that. She wondered how it had felt to be a poor orphan amongst so many rich purebloods. Not good, she imagined. That had been part of the reason he'd striven so hard to prove himself, to show that he was spectacularly more exceptional than anyone else, regardless of wealth. And he had, of course, succeeded.

"Who'd like to go next?"

Merrythought's voice broke her out of her wayward thoughts. For the next hour she was distracted by the many students who were brave enough to follow Draco's act: Lyall dueled Ignatius, the former coming out on top; Raven then dueled Lyall, and once again the handsome Gryffindor triumphed; Thoros went next, and barely scraped out a victory; then a few younger students went, and she kept a close eye on the ones who showed promise.

But she knew she wouldn't be able to avoid dueling much longer. She had a bet going with Dolohov, after all. So after Alphard and Pepper dueled, leaving Alphard the victor, Hermione stood.

Merrythought looked to her expectantly. "Did you wish to duel Mister Black, Hermione?" she asked, her eyebrow raised.

She smiled at Alphard, who nodded back in respect and descended the stage. "Perhaps another day, Professor. I've actually already agreed to a face off with Dolohov. If you're agreeable?"

Merrythought frowned, but nodded. Dolohov had a reputation as a ferocious dueler, often "accidentally" sending other students to the hospital wing for semi-serious injuries. But Hermione gave her a sly smile, and Merrythought seemed reassured. Who better to put him in his place than a half-blood, Gryffindor _girl?_ It would be so poetic. Dolohov was a classic bigot, and she couldn't wait to wipe that hateful sneer off his face.

Assuming she'd win. She was confident, but it would be the kiss of death to underestimate him, and she hadn't seen him in action. He hadn't seen her duel either, so it was a clean slate.

Dolohov stood, looking haughty and mean. He stalked up on stage, and Hermione removed her cardigan, leaving her in a simple maroon short-sleeved shirt and pleated grey high-waisted pants (which weren't quite in fashion in the wizarding world yet, but hell if she was going to duel in a skirt if she didn't have to). Tom spoke before she moved up to the stage.

"He fights dirty," he warned quietly, his eyes dark and intense on her.

She fixed him with a slow, wicked smile, and saw his eyes darken in response. "I certainly hope so."

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes, and she tapped his shoulder affectionately and then turned and mounted the other side of the podium, facing Dolohov.

She couldn't help the feeling of excitement that boiled in her veins when she saw him standing there, calm and collected. This was her chance. This was her chance to get back at the man that had scarred her for life; the man that had twisted her insides up in such a way that she would never have children of her own. She couldn't kill him, or really even hurt him, but she could humiliate him. And then she would lie in wait for the moment when she _could_ get away with killing him – even if it took her years.

Merrythought nodded to the two of them, and they took their stances.

Smiling, she bowed.

* * *

oooo

Tom watched in fascination as she bowed to Dolohov in what was an undoubtedly mocking manner. She whipped out her wand, holding it upright, as was usual, but she did it with such disdain that suddenly the words of the previous week popped back into his head.

" _Did you think that because you're handsome and smart and magically formidable that I would willingly attach myself to you? You, who haven't dueled without_ _ **bowing**_ _first, whose little posse of perfectly pedigreed, inconsequential followers makes you think you're somehow_ _ **important**_ _and_ _ **powerful**_ _?"_

Seeing her turn and take three steps, her eyes and her wand glimmering red in the bright firelight, he understood her words. From the brief glimpse he'd seen of her memories, no wonder she was so unimpressed with the people around her. She was a lioness trying to break bread with squirrels.

Dolohov was just a split-second faster in turning around, and Tom expected the stunner he shot at Granger would hit her in the side as she turned – however, she had thrown a shield up over her shoulder as she'd turned, and now she was looking at Antonin with the eyes of a predator. A _hungry_ predator.

She twirled her wand around through her fingers, completely nonchalant as she deflected another curse from Dolohov – a slicing curse this time. Then she did something that _should_ have been entirely impossible.

She held a shield even as she cast her first curse. _Simultaneously._ She had to verbally cast the _Expelliarmus_ she threw at him, but her shield very effectively blocked out his next offensive spell, whereas Antonin barely managed to throw up a shield in time. It was weak, and the forceful disarming spell ricocheted off of it with an audible _bong._ He managed to hold onto his wand, but he visibly jolted, flinching backwards.

But _how?_

Then it truly began – a barrage of defensive and offensive spells, some of which hit their mark and some of which did not, some of which were verbal and some of which were nonverbal. Hermione had a single scrape on her wrist, and Dolohov was unharmed – which surprised him; wasn't she supposed to be better than this?

That's when he noticed that every offensive spell she used was especially pathetic. Like she was barely even trying.

Tom glanced to the side as Mallery tapped his cane on the ground. "Hermione," the blond drawled, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

"Yes, Draco?" she replied, twirling gracefully away from a curse and parrying with one of her own.

"Didn't your mum ever teach you not to play with your food?"

The grin on her face was as wicked as a shark's. "She must have forgotten that particular lesson."

Mallery looked exasperated. "Have mercy on the poor sod, then. The rest of us are getting bored. It's been almost ten minutes."

Tom stared at her as she laughed delightedly. Dolohov was snarling, and sweating. And that's when he realized: she was _toying_ with him.

She was toying with the second-best dueler in the student body, toying with a man that was generally ruthless and dishonorable in a fight. And she was playing with him as a cat bats around a ball of string.

And it only made him want her all the more.

"Granger." Draco sounded disapproving.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Dad," she snarked meanly. "Merlin. You take the fun out of everything."

And with that, the duel was over.

Her body was lean and agile, and her eyes were alight with the fierce joy of battle magic. It took her two minutes and thirty-six seconds. Tom timed it. She had worn Dolohov out by letting him chase her in circles, and now his response times were lagging and his grip on his wand was too tight. She finally lifted her wand decisively and hammered him with offensive spells, one after the other, all while still having that shield flickering to life every few seconds – though Dolohov was far too concerned with his defense at this point to employ much offense. Then a slicing curse got through to leave a gash on his cheek, and she used his shock to swiftly disarm him. Then she murmured a spell he wasn't familiar with – _Levicorpus –_ and Dolohov was yanked up into the air by his ankle, dangling upside down like a rotten jujube.

Dolohov's wand slid down the tile of the dais to stop at her feet. She looked down at it for a moment as the students around her started to clap, and then bent to pick it up, rolling the blackthorn wand between her fingers. Tom saw the slight sneer on her face as she observed the dark wand, and then she tossed it back down to the other side of the stage where Dolohov still hung upside down. Waving her bright wand and muttering _"Liberacorpus"_ under her breath, Dolohov crashed to the ground, landing awkwardly on his back.

Tom had known all along that she would probably win. But he hadn't counted on how _easy_ it had been. She'd teased Antonin for the bulk of the duel, but when she'd finally decided to put an end to it, it had been quick and harsh and decisive. Despite all he'd seen her do, he was still surprised by just how strong and certain her magic was. Whereas Mallery's magic was carefully contained and carefully meted out, Granger's was like hot ball of energy that was bursting free of its restraints. She controlled it, but there was something so _raw_ about it, something restless that he was almost afraid to see or touch. It was like she was trying to fasten a steel harness around magic that was just itching to be free. It raged at its cage. He could _feel_ it.

Dolohov got to his feet slowly. Tom recognized the murderous look in his eyes. However, he wasn't typically as rash as someone like Rosier. The sixth year's knuckles were white with his grip on his wand, and he stood staring at Hermione with the cold sort of hatred that had even Tom frowning. He thought back to another thing Hermione had said.

" _Intelligent. Calculating. Loyal to you because he likes what you preach and practice and knows without a doubt that you are far more powerful than he. But he's without conscience. He has no boundaries."_

" _I like that he has no conscience. That can be useful."_

" _Or that can be dangerous."_

He frowned, still looking at the sixth year.

" _Violence for the sake of violence is an ugly, wretched thing."_ She'd said that, when she'd been talking about Dolohov the week prior. She'd said all those things, and she hadn't been wrong.

He leaned over to Mallery when Dolohov brushed himself off and descended the stage. "So how long would it have taken her to beat him if she hadn't fooled around like that?"

Draco shrugged, looking at his old friend with love and respect that had Tom's fists clenching involuntarily. "Four minutes? Five? It's hard to know."

"And can you cast a shield whilst simultaneously casting a curse as well, or is that just her thing?" he asked, his voice low and sly.

Mallery's lips quirked up in an infuriating smirk. "Oh no, not just her. I can do it too. And all of our friends back home knew the trick as well."

Tom clenched his teeth and tried to control the terrible envy that bubbled forth from his chest. "And would you care to share with the class?"

Mallery's head turned slowly, and he fixed Tom with a chilling stare. "And why on earth would I do that?"

He narrowed his eyes at the blond. Prick. If there had been any doubt that Mallery would have been sorted into Slytherin, it was gone now; those shrewd grey eyes were cool and full of quiet power and confidence.

"It's rather selfish to hoard knowledge," Tom countered smoothly. "This is a school after all. And knowledge is power."

Draco did not smile. "That is precisely," he murmured lowly, "why I do not share."

Then those mercurial eyes slid away from Tom with such disdain that Tom, for the first time in years, felt _inferior._

And that just wouldn't do.

So he decided right then and there that he needed to eliminate Draco Mallery – sooner rather than later.

* * *

oooo

Rosier stared at the stranger across from him, tapping his fingers restlessly against the tree he stood up against. He squinted at the hooded figure, but try as he might he could not make out any features below the man's cloak. The only distinguishing mark was an oddly shaped scar on the back of his hand, kind of like a zigzag. Rosier breathed out through his nose impatiently.

"So?" he finally said, irritable. It was cold, and it was dark, and he was standing on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest with someone who might be dangerous. Still, he thought, it might be worth it.

"So you showed up," the mysterious stranger said, "which means that you're interested."

Rosier shrugged. "Yeah, I'm interested. But I'm not committing to anything."

The man cocked his head. "Well, of course not. I haven't given you any details." He paused. "But it would involve getting your revenge on the girl, and you would be handsomely rewarded."

Rosier narrowed his eyes. "Rewarded how? And by whom?"

"Monetarily, if you so wish it. But I know you have plenty of money, Rosier. The man I work for would repay you with things far more meaningful," his new acquaintance said. A sharp gust of wind ruffled the hood of his cloak. "Of course, to collect these rewards you would have to leave your loyalty to Riddle behind. You would be serving someone else – but as more of an equal. My master does not take his friends for granted – not like yours does."

Rosier swallowed uncomfortably, thinking of Tom. To leave his Lord behind…that was a huge step. He felt no love for his housemate, to be certain – in fact, since the fiasco in his room two weeks ago, Gavin had come to _hate_ him. Him, and his stupid, crazy little half-blood bitch.

That… _cunt._ That absolute _cunt_ of a woman had sliced him up and scarred him for life. And his Lord had just sat there, watching on in cold amusement as she'd carved a slur into his leg and then branded him with Tom's initials.

He'd sat there and done nothing.

He sneered. "I feel no special loyalty towards Riddle," he said lowly. "I would be willing to work behind his back. For the right price." He shifted on his feet. "I don't know who you are, or how much you know, but Tom Riddle isn't one to be crossed lightly. He's a fucking monster. If he were to find out about my betrayal, I would need protection. Can your master offer that?"

The man's lips, all Gavin could see of his face, curved into a smirk. "He is probably the only person on the planet that could offer you that protection. With a few exceptions, perhaps. Riddle wouldn't be able to touch you." He paused. "You might have to forgo finishing your studies – or get a tutor and sit your N.E.W.T.s privately."

"Fuck N.E.W.T.s," he snarled in return. "I never planned on going into the working field anyway. I've enough money to not have to work like some…commoner," he said disdainfully. "And fuck Tom Riddle and his new _pet._ They can rot."

The man nodded. "Then you'll do it?"

Rosier nodded warily. "I want details."

"I'll owl you with instructions."

"And when is this little kidnapping of yours supposed to take place?"

"Halloween. You have a week and a half to plan. I don't care what you do to get her here – hurt her, if you need to. Just make sure she's alive, and have her in the designated spot by one a.m. Someone will meet you there."

Gavin crossed his arms. "And why can't you do it? Why risk asking me?"

The man huffed out a laugh. "I have my own job to do, Rosier. Plus, she won't be expecting it."

"How do you know?" he said suspiciously.

He chuckled. "After what she did to you, she'll expect you to fear her."

Rosier felt his face flush. "I don't fear her," he hissed adamantly. The lie tasted sour on his tongue, and he hated her all the more when her bright orange gaze flashed into his mind, accompanied by the terror of her knife digging into his skin.

"You should," the man said quietly. "Treat her carefully. Knock her out, _Imperius_ her, whatever – but don't get yourself in a position where she has her wand and can fight back. She'll kill you in a second."

He stiffened, his ego howling, but before he could respond the man was gliding off through the trees.

"Watch for my owl."

And then he was gone, and Gavin was left wondering what on earth he had gotten himself into.

oooo

 **So obviously I changed the last scene of this chapter. I realized, after some deliberation, that I was putting my plot in the wrong order. Oops. Anyways, no Grindelwald just yet. More Tom, and more Hermione, and a bit more Draco. And Rosier and the rest of the Knights of Walpurgis. And now a mysterious stranger – the question is, who, exactly, does he work for? Remember, Grindelwald isn't the only one after Hermione and Draco. Hm.**

 **Also, Avery will finally show some emotion. Can you guess what it might be? You're probably wrong.**

 **And costumes! I love costumes. Halloween! Yaaayy!**

 **Snippet from the next chapter:**

 _"What are you playing at?" she whispered for his ears only. "Care to share with the class?"_

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	27. Chapter 27

**A special thanks to Ivana and JustRainy, who have been incredible reviewers. Also shout outs to Nispedana and Fourensics. Thank you all for your attention. I hope I never disappoint you! :)**

 **JUST in case you didn't get the memo, the ending of Chapter 26 was recently changed, so if you haven't reread it, you should do that now. I made a huge mistake with the series of events that would have left a massive plot hole.**

 **Which is why outlines are important, darlings. If you're going to write an outline, you should definitely consult with it. Often. So you don't forget anything.**

 **Anyway, let's get on with it.**

 **Somebody asked me recently what my Hermione looks like to me, which is an interesting question, and one I'd not gotten before. It's kind of hard to explain, because we all have our ways of seeing characters in our minds, but I'll do my best. So imagine if Emma Watson, Louise Brealey, Nina Dobrev, and Emmy Rossum all got together and had a love child. There you go. Also, there is a bit of Emilia Clarke in there too – do you want to know why? I'll tell you why. Because I look like Emilia Clarke (like, it's kind of uncanny – the only huge difference is the eye color). And no matter what anyone says, they are lying if they say they don't partially project their image into the place of their hero/heroine. That's why books are so fun. Because we can imagine the characters how we like, and superimpose our features onto them. So anyways, yeah. That's that.**

 **By the way, this is a total filler chapter. Which is why, in the spirit of fairness, I am posting the next chapter tomorrow.**

* * *

oooo

The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire. –Ferdinand Foch

It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous, that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to. –George Santayana

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. –J.R.R. Tolkien

I wanna hold 'em like they do in Texas plays  
Fold 'em, let 'em, hit me, raise it baby stay with me (I love it)  
Love Game intuition play the cards with spades to start  
And after he's been hooked I'll play the one that's on his heart

I wanna roll with him a hard pair we will be  
A little gambling is fun when you're with me (I love it)  
Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun  
And baby when it's love, if its not rough it isn't fun, fun

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-e-oh-oh-oh  
I'll get him hot, show him what I've got  
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-e-oh-oh-oh,  
I'll get him hot, show him what I've got

Can't read my,  
Can't read my,  
No he can't read my poker face  
(She's got me like nobody)  
Can't read my  
Can't read my  
No he can't read my poker face  
(She is gonna let nobody)

-"Poker Face" by Lady Gaga

* * *

oooo

 _Wednesday, May 28, 1986_

 _Oxford, England_

 _Hermione sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor in the lobby of her parents' dental practice, her book spread across the low tea table in front of her so she can get better light with which to read by. Pamela, her parents' receptionist, periodically smiles at her from behind the desk, charged with keeping an eye on the much-beloved only child while Hermione's mum and dad finish up at work. Hermione always smiles back. Pamela never looks at her strangely, or patronizes her. Hermione likes her._

" _What are you reading?"_

 _Hermione looks to her left, where a woman in a mustard yellow sweater is looking at her with a strange expression. The woman reminds her somewhat of a very large bird, but she has kind eyes._

 _Hermione pulls her book up to show the woman the cover. "'Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea'," she answers easily. "By Jules Verne."_

 _The woman leans forward. "Is that so?" she says, her voice equal parts incredulity and awe. "Is it your parents' book?"_

 _Hermione shakes her head. "No, they got it for me when we went to France last year," she says in response. "I wanted to read it in French. Sometimes books just aren't the same if you don't read them in the language in which they were written." She runs her hand lovingly over the book. "Some things get lost in translation."_

 _The woman smiles at her. "You can read French?"_

 _Hermione nods. "I can speak it, too. Fluently."_

 _The bird-woman raises her eyebrows. "Your parents' must also be fluent, then," she said._

 _Hermione shrugs. "Not like me." She tucks her wild hair behind an ear. "This summer we're actually going to Russia on vacation. I've been studying the language for a couple of months now. I'd like to be able to read Nabokov's complete works by the time we return."_

 _This time the woman actually looked concerned, although Hermione couldn't fathom the reason why. "How old are you, dear?"_

 _Hermione held up six fingers. "I'll be seven in September."_

 _The yellow-shirted woman nods vacantly, but looks a bit dazed. She doesn't get a chance to ask any more questions, however, because her name is called – Martha – and then she is standing and walking towards where the oral hygienist stands with a clipboard. She gives Hermione one last look. "Do enjoy your trip," she says. She smiles uncertainly, and Hermione waves and beams at her._

 _Then the woman disappears through the door, and Hermione looks back down to her book. Captain Nemo and the incredible Nautilus have just arrived at Atlantis, and Hermione is fascinated with the dialogue between Nemo and Aronnax…_

* * *

oooo

"I'm going alone."

"Alone? Hermione, you can't just go _alone._ Imagine the scandal!"

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Zuri and Raven had no such restraint as they perused the costumes surrounding them, but luckily Iris didn't see them, as she was focusing solely on Hermione with horrified blue eyes.

She shrugged, moving her hands along the racks of Madame Mystique's, her fingers gliding across the supple fabric of a silver cloak. It reminded her of Harry's invisibility cloak, sitting safely in her purple beaded bag. "I'm really not that worried about it," she said nonchalantly. "I don't want to encourage anyone. The only two people I could get away with not encouraging are Draco, who's taking Sabrina, and Riddle – and even though Tom would have the sense not to infer anything from it, I'm certainly not going to encourage the rest of society into believing we're _together,_ or some such rubbish."

"Ouch," came a voice from behind her. "I'm not sure whether I should be offended or complimented."

Hermione almost whirled, wand in hand, but she would recognize that voice anywhere, by now. It was a voice that haunted her both day and night. She didn't even turn, ignoring Iris' wide, startled eyes.

"Probably wise to take it as both," she said without twisting, resisting the urge to squirm as she felt Riddle's body heat against her back. She quivered as she felt one of his long fingers run down her spine, unseen by the three girls she was with. Judging from Raven's scrutinizing expression, however, the pretty Slytherin wasn't fooled.

"Indeed." He paused, and still, she did not turn, instead pulling a floaty black dress with feathers at the hem off of its rack. A crow, she assumed. Or a raven. Smirking, she handed it to Raven, who grinned and draped it over her arm. It gave Hermione an idea for a costume – and an idea for a date.

"Actually," she continued on blithely, ignoring the slight green tinge to Iris' face, "I thought perhaps I'd see if some of my as-of-yet unattached girlfriends might join me." She looked at her Slytherin friend, and then at the two Gryffindor girls. "Raven? Zuri? Iris?" She winked. "Interested?"

"Blimey, Hermione," Zuri breathed, looking uncomfortable at Riddle's continued presence. His smell enveloped Hermione, and her nostrils flared as the subtle hints of sandalwood permeated the air around her. "That's bold."

"Too bold for you, Rubright?" Raven teased, stalking past Zuri and tickling the end of her nose with a feather from the dress she was carrying.

Zuri's nose twitched, and the Indian girl glared. "No," she said defensively, crossing her arms and lifting her eyebrows imperiously. "I like it."

Iris still looked unsure, and was still a bit green at Tom's close presence. Before she could back out, the annoyingly ever-present Head Boy spoke.

"An interesting idea," he said. "I like it, too."

Finally Hermione turned to look at him. He was dressed casually for a nice Sunday at Hogsmeade, warm in a dark blue sweater and a black pea coat left unbuttoned. Its high collar framed his face, matched perfectly by the ink black hair that curled ever-so-stylishly around his ears. His skin was gorgeously pale as always, but his cheeks were pink with the wind that snapped through the fall air outside. And today he wore a hat – a charcoal grey ascot cap that matched his trousers. She hated that he looked so bloody good in it.

Immediately Iris was on board. "Well, of course, Hermione," she said, tugging on the ends of her unbound golden hair in nervousness. Once again, though, Hermione would give her credit for having more dignity than Lavender or Parvati would have had. Not to speak ill of the dead. But Iris was a sight better than Hermione's perpetually giggling former housemates had been. "I'd be delighted. I was going to go with Davies, but I never gave him an official answer, so I suppose I'm free." She paused and licked her lips, her eyes darting to Riddle and back. "Should we coordinate our costumes?"

Raven slipped into a dressing room, allowing Zuri to hand her a raven's mask before she pulled the curtain. "I can't resist the urge to go as my namesake, now that I've found the costume," she said through the curtain. "Hermione?"

She shrugged, turning away from Tom. Sometimes looking at him for too long hurt her eyes. "I was thinking a phoenix."

"You do look good in red," Tom said lowly. "I imagine you can probably pull off orange as well."

She ignored him, turning her face away to hide her blush. Iris piped up. "So birds, perhaps?" she said. "What should I look for?"

"Something blue," Tom said immediately, taking the words right out of Hermione's mouth. He picked up a mask in the shape of a butterfly, turned it over in his hands, and then set it back on the shelf. "It suits you," he complimented with a smile.

Hermione cleared her throat and gave Iris an encouraging smile. The blonde looked like she was about to faint. From what Hermione could gather, it was perhaps the first time Tom had ever paid the beauty a lick of attention.

"It really does," she added kindly. "Although I suspect purple and green would be just as flattering."

"How about a peacock?" Zuri said, cocking her head in Iris' direction. Her eyes kept flicking to Tom as he walked off a few feet to inspect a set of false vampire's teeth.

Iris smiled. "Oh, they are beautiful, aren't they?" she said, excitement in her eyes. "All of those feathers." She positively beamed at Zuri. It was like Tom Riddle's smile had given her a whole new reason to live. Hermione struggled not to snort. "What about you, Zuri?"

The dark girl shrugged. "I dunno. Granger?"

Hermione looked to Tom. "Any thoughts, O Lord of Costumes?" she asked teasingly.

A smile played around his perfect mouth. "A thunderbird, perhaps?" he suggested. "I know they don't live on this side of the Atlantic, but I hear they're rather beautiful. Might take some clever spell work to get the look just right, but you have a very inventive friend at your disposal," he purred, looking pointedly at Hermione. "I imagine she might be able to come up with something."

Hermione swallowed and lifted her chin. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve," she said, smiling at Zuri. "Two of my best girlfriends back home _lived_ for this sort of thing," she said wistfully, thinking of Ginny and Pansy and letting the twinge of loss and pain hit her briefly before shooing it away. "They didn't let me get away with not learning a few things. They loved style transfiguration." She winked at Zuri. "Thunderbirds are neat creatures. Between Iris and me," she said, poking the blonde playfully in the ribs, "we can fix you up."

"What about Pepper?" Raven said from behind the curtain. "She doesn't have a date. We should ask her if she wants to join."

"An augurey, perhaps?" Hermione mused, taking a white gown from a rack and idly holding it up against Zuri's figure. "The green would contrast nicely with her hair. Or the blue of a jobberknoll might be nice."

Tom cleared his throat. "I believe a certain Miss Greengrass is dateless as of yet, as well," he suggested. "And I think she's rather enamored of you, Hermione – you and your radical ideas."

She raised an eyebrow. "The feeling is mutual," she said with a small smile. Violet Greengrass had started sitting with them for some meals, and was proving to be rather tolerable, if not a bit snobbish. She had a sarcastic, understated sense of humor that was so subtle that no one really knew just how funny she actually _was,_ except for Raven _._ The blonde had a good head on her shoulders and Hermione liked her, despite not being able to read her very well. "Have you seen her today? Is she in Hogsmeade still?" She looked at her watch. "It's getting late. We only have a couple of hours left to shop."

"Last time I saw her she was splitting with Selwyn to grab some new quills," he said, looking bored. "Shall I seek her out for you?"

Hermione gave him a tight smile. "No need," she said. _"Expecto Patronum."_ Her lioness burst from her wand with a low growl and disappeared through the floor, sinking down to the lower level of the shop before bursting through the front door and galloping through the village. People in the streets jumped out of the way, looking harried. Many stopped to point. Tom watched the spectral white figure disappear around the corner, and then met her gaze. "Thanks for the offer, though."

He rolled his eyes. "Show off," he said teasingly.

She grinned. "Always." She narrowed her eyes. "Not that I don't always enjoy your company," she said with a curious tilt of her head, letting the sarcasm bleed heavily into her words, "but what exactly are you doing here?"

"I saw you through the window, and simply knew I had to offer my advice on costumes for Halloween," he said sincerely.

She snorted. "Nope. Try again."

His grin was lightning quick and just as stunning. "You're right. I wished to speak with you about potentially going to the Halloween ball with me, but I think I like your idea better."

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling the three girls behind her freeze and go silent. "Surely you didn't think I'd say yes," she scoffed acidly. She ignored the gasp from behind her at her rudeness – no doubt from Iris. "And what were you thinking? I thought you were loath to be seen as being 'effectively captivated' or whatever rubbish it was that Bones printed in that article. Remember, the one about our 'budding romance'?"

He hummed, and her eyes narrowed further at the amusement in his gaze. She crossed her arms as he brought a hand up to tug on one of her loose curls, but did not pull away. She tapped her foot impatiently.

"I suppose being 'effectively captivated' isn't so bad," he said with a shrug, his voice low but just loud enough to carry back to the three women that stood just a few feet away, no doubt hanging onto every word they could make out. He twirled her hair around his finger, and she looked up at him with wide, horrified eyes, her arms going slack at her sides.

"What are you playing at?" she whispered for his ears only. "Care to share with the class?"

He huffed out a quiet laugh, his lips curving in wicked amusement. He leaned down close to her, his lips a hair's breadth from the shell of her ear.

"Relax, Granger," he breathed, his hand letting go of her errant curl in favor of settling on her waist. His thumb stroked her ribcage over her robes, just an inch below her breast. She quivered in surprise, her breath hitching.

"Remove your hands from my person," she said, her nostrils flaring.

"Is that really what you want?" he murmured in response, boldly bringing his other hand up to mirror its twin.

She glared at him hotly. "Your little show is going to result in a world's worth of gossip," she hissed. "And one of our observers happens to be best friends with the younger sister of the columnist who got you angry enough to actually _accost_ me at _lunch_ over this _very issue._ So I'll ask you again: _what_ are you playing at?"

"Perhaps I've changed my mind," he replied quietly. "Perhaps I'd rather be seen as an 'attractive couple' with someone I find tolerable," he said with a small shrug.

She exhaled angrily through her nose. "Feeling some pressure from society to settle down and choose a woman?" she suggested meanly.

His eyes were cold now, and hard. "I need to throw them a bone to get them off my back. Besides, better the devil you know…"

She snorted. "Well, _this_ particular devil is, and will remain, blissfully single. Perhaps next time you might check to see if said devil is, in fact, receptive to your idea of _couplehood,"_ she sneered. "But now that your bone has been thrown," she continued, putting her hands on his chest and pushing, "you can kindly take your person elsewhere and torment someone _else_ with your presence."

He blinked, and his hands caught hers, trapping them against his chest. He gave her a smoldering look that made something stir low in her belly. He smirked at her, and then pulled away. She hid a sigh of relief. The relief soon fled when he bent down and brushed his lips against her cheek. The feeling of his mouth on her skin had her frozen in shock. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Maybe next time, then," he said when he pulled back, his voice once again loud enough for the girls to hear.

She watched him coolly as he began to walk backwards towards the stairs, watching her with intense dark eyes. "Doubtful," she drawled unkindly.

He barked out a laugh, looking pleased. She frowned. "You can't say no forever, Hermione," he said confidently.

"Watch me," she snarled, meeting his stare with a glare of her own.

He merely grinned and winked at her, tipped his bloody _stupid_ hat at her companions, and turned, taking the stairs two at a time. She watched with narrowed, angry eyes as he exited into the street below, and didn't look away until he rounded the corner, following the path her patronus had taken. She gritted her teeth, and turned back to her friends.

Raven was leaning casually against a wall, looking the picture of Pureblood arrogance in the black, feathery strapless number that Hermione had picked out for her. She was staring at Hermione with a shit-eating grin. Zuri had a closed fist over her mouth and was struggling to hold back laughter. Iris looked like she had swallowed something sour.

Hermione stalked back over to them, tearing a bright red gown off the rack with gusto. "What…an… _arsehole!"_

Raven snorted. "But a very, _very_ handsome arsehole. A handsome arsehole who wants to kiiiiissssss youuu…"

She and Zuri started making smooching noises together, both grinning and giggling like morons. Before Hermione could slap either one of them for their cheek, Iris made a noise with her tongue.

"Hush!" she said disapprovingly, her voice harsh. She glared at the two dark haired girls, who silenced instantly under her serious blue gaze. She turned to Hermione, her arms folded. "Now," she began, sniffing disdainfully. She uncrossed her arms, and put them on Hermione's shoulders. "This is no laughing matter," she said primly, looking again towards Raven and Zuri as Hermione simply stared at her, puzzled. "Hermione here is now officially the romantic interest of Hogwarts' most sought-after male student," she said seriously. "And she needs us, ladies. She _needs us."_

"No," Hermione began, backing away in horror just as Raven and Zuri started to grin again. "Absolutely not. Iris, I'm not interested – "

"I swear to God, Hermione," Iris said threateningly, "if you say 'I'm not interested' one more _bleeding_ time, I'm going to curse you to hell and back. You are obviously interested. And Riddle is _more_ than interested. So hush," she continued, "and let us be your wing-women."

"Yes!" Zuri said, pumping her fist into the air in an uncharacteristic display of exuberance.

Raven whooped, and she and Zuri joined hands and twirled each other around playfully before coming to stand on either side of Hermione. Even her incensed glares couldn't deter them from their excitement. Iris let a wicked grin slide across her features.

"It's the twenty-second," the blonde said, her eyes devious. "So we have nine days to prepare our little lioness to wow the socks off of her new suitor – "

"He's not my _suitor,_ Iris, oh my _Merlin_ – "

" – and we need to make sure everything is perfect – "

" – I am going to _kill_ him, _and_ all of _you_ – "

" – so that Riddle will see her and fall head over heels – "

" – if you don't stop this nonsense _right fucking now_ – "

" – and he won't stand a chance after we're done with her – "

" – and trust me when I say that Riddle couldn't care less about what I'm going to look like dressed as a _bloody bird –_ "

"He won't know what hit him!"

"Wait – Iris – hold on _just one bloody second_ – I am absolutely _not_ wearing that – !"

* * *

oooo

"You look very nice."

"I hate you."

Draco chuckled, bending down to kiss her cheek and ignoring the way she swatted at him angrily.

"It's not funny," she hissed, glaring at him. He stared back from his position leaning against his wardrobe, crossing his arms.

He had agreed to let the girls use his spacious suite to get ready for the Halloween ball, and he waved his wand, tidying up and corralling strips of bright fabric and eyeliner pencils into a catchall basket in the corner. He adjusted his helmet.

"It _is_ funny, actually," he denied, collapsing back into his armchair and ignoring the sound of a small horde of giggling girls coming from his bathroom in favor of staring at his best friend. "Fawley's outdone herself this time."

Hermione fumed, but chose not to respond, instead sitting down on the end of his bed and crossing her arms petulantly. He resisted the urge to grin, and found his eyes wandering over the incredible magic of her dress.

It was, Draco imagined, going to be the most eye-catching costume at the ball, though the rest of the girls were certainly making statements of their own. Zuri's thunderbird dress was a masterpiece, white and gold that fizzled periodically with electric blue lightning. Hermione had cleverly spelled the skirt of the shimmering pale gown to darken with thunderclouds when the dark-skinned girl twirled. She'd added the feathery, multi-tiered wings that the elusive North American bird was known for and, as she had for the rest of the girls' wings, had spelled them to move independently, adding them like an extra set of limbs to the back of each girl's dress, including her own. Zuri's dark hair was French braided and she wore a gilded white mask, and Iris had cleverly charmed the Indian girl's eyes to flash gold anytime she fluttered her eyelashes.

With her dress and mask Pepper Peabody had chosen the speckled blue plumage of the jobberknoll, which looked lovely against her peachy complexion and auburn hair, and Violet Greengrass was tall and willowy as the mournful augurey, her sleek gown a mix of iridescent green and black silk accented with feathers at the shoulders and hem. Her mask was the sharp visage of a vulture-like raptor, contrasting sharply with her milk-white skin and hair nearly as pale as Draco's that she'd pulled back into a severe ponytail.

Raven, of course, was all in black, her entire dress covered in feathers and her beaked raven mask covering all but her mouth, which was painted a dark plum and curved into a wicked smirk. Iris was a vision in blue and green and purple, the only one of them without a set of wings; instead her shoulders were draped with a long cape covered in peacock feathers, and blue tinsel was threaded through her yellow fishtail braid. She wore no mask, her face adorned only by swirling silver and blue paint that framed her eyes and curled around her temples. Draco had graciously let her borrow some of his mother's jewelry: a collection consisting of a peacock pin, peacock feather earrings and a bracelet, all made of silver, sapphires, emeralds and peridot. His mother would have disowned him for letting such a specific set of jewelry going unused when there was such a fitting occasion for them – and Iris, with her stunning looks and Pureblood poise, was as fit to wear them as any.

The girls were all beautiful. All stunning in their own right. And Hermione had truly taken a page from Ginny Weasley and Pansy Parkinson's book, pouring all of her magical knowledge into creating costumes that he doubted Hogwarts had ever seen before in this timeline.

Hermione herself outshone them all, of course. Iris had made sure of that.

Her dress was something out of a fairytale, with two-inch-wide silk straps, a sweetheart neckline and corseted lacing at the back. The skirt was an eclectic blend of feathers, tulle and smooth satin, not too full nor too sleek. Through some clever spell-work and an impressive flame-freezing charm, fire flared at the hem, licking up the skirt without damaging the elegant fabric. Glass sequins and beads had been painstakingly sewed into the bodice, and the blend of gold, red, orange and yellow fabrics were so intertwined he couldn't tell where one color ended and the next began. Any time she moved the dress would shimmer and the colors would change in the light, illuminated further by the flickering flames at the bottom of the skirt.

Iris had pinned his friend's tumultuous hair back from her face, but had left it primarily unbound, the riotous curls falling down to the small of her back, having grown longer than they had ever been before. Red, orange and yellow-gold feathers had been woven through her loose locks. A goblin-wrought gold tiara of sorts lay atop her head, tiny diamonds and topaz glittering from where they were nestled into the roots of her hair. Like Iris, she wore no mask – the blonde had cleverly painted a red-orange stripe across her eyes, reminiscent of some Amazonian warrior of old, and had adorned each temple with gold leaf that ran artfully back into the hair that was pulled back from her face. As a nod to the little-known-about blue tail feathers that each phoenix sported, Hermione had painted her fingers and toenails royal blue, and tanzanite dangled at her ears and gleamed from a ring on her hand. Her shoes were gold, the straps winding around her ankles and complimenting her sun-kissed skin. The magnificent wings that protruded from the back of her dress fluttered and twitched, smoldering with the same kind of fire that burned on her dress.

She looked like a goddess.

Iris came bounding out of the bathroom, looking like a goddess herself, holding the hand of Draco's date. Sabrina was dressed as Artemis, wearing a silver dress in the Greek style and holding an ivory bow. A silver wreath laid atop her dark hair, which was pulled into a low, braided chignon. Ice blue eyes met his, and he grinned, tipping his helmet. He was dressed as Ares, and he felt shallow satisfaction unfurl within his chest when he saw both Iris' and Sabrina's eyes flicker over his bare shoulders and arms. As scarred as he was, war did not make for soft bodies. He and Hermione both could attest to that. And as Pansy had once mentioned: scars on women were shocking, but scars on men were dashing. An unfair fact of life, but a fact just the same. He winked at Sabrina, and she blushed faintly and looked away.

"Oh Hermione," Sabrina breathed, smoothing a hand over the laces on the back of his best friend's dress. "You look so beautiful."

Hermione kept the grimace from her face, and instead pulled the girl into an uncharacteristic hug. "Thank you, Sabrina. You look as lovely as the goddess you're portraying." She turned to Iris. "And you are a vision, Iris. You might be the prettiest peacock I've ever laid eyes on."

Iris giggled, and Draco zoned out as the three girls bent their heads together, whispering about something. He pulled his helmet off, running his hand through his hair. Hermione had cut it for him yesterday, and it was a relief to have it tidy again. He hated shaggy hair. He was Draco Malfoy, last of the Malfoy bloodline – not Harry bleeding Potter, with his unkempt hair and smudged glasses. He'd said as much to Hermione, and had gotten swatted for his cheek.

Feeling impatient, he walked over to the door and opened it, looking out into the hall. Students were wandering down to the Great Hall in pairs and groups, chatting and laughing as they tugged at their costumes, some sillier than others. He waved at Felicity Carmichael and Lyall Lupin, who were dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf. They waved back, and when they turned the corner, he winced – perhaps Lyall wouldn't be dressed as he was if he knew what Fenrir Greyback would one day do to his son.

What bitter irony.

He closed the door just as Magnus Macdonald looked up in his direction, dressed, predictably, as a knight. He was walking with Antoinette Haywood, the only other girl in the school that could give Iris Fawley a run for her money in the looks department; the fifth-year was dressed in a medieval gown, her wavy strawberry blonde hair pulled into a series of elaborate braids and her green eyes lined delicately in brown. Freckles dotted her nose. He gave the Hufflepuff a brief smile before he shut the door, turning back to the group of girls currently crowding his suite.

"Are you girls quite finished?" he said with a huff, pacing in front of the portrait hole. "We're going to be the last ones down, at this rate."

"Fashionably late, Mister Mallery," Violet drawled as she floated out of the bathroom, her head held high. He never thought he would ever find someone quite as snobbish as his mother, but the elder Greengrass sister nearly put Narcissa Malfoy to shame. "We are effectively tossing the applecart off of a cliff with this little social experiment of ours," she continued, spritzing some perfume on her wrists, "and so we might as well make an entrance."

"Go hard or go home," Pepper chirped with a grin.

Violet sniffed disdainfully and adjusted her mask. "Precisely." She looked down at Draco's left arm, her blue eyes roving over his deformed tattoo. "What on earth happened to your arm, Mister Mallery?"

He shrugged, running his thumb over the ropey purple scar that twisted his Dark Mark into something unrecognizable. "Used to be a tattoo," he said nonchalantly. "And then someone nearly filleted my arm," he continued, gesturing to where the scar ran from the crook of his elbow down to his palm, "and now it's just an ugly black spot."

"A tattoo?" Violet said, blinking at him in something that looked a bit like horror. "How…interesting."

He snorted. He could hear the implication behind her tone: that tattoos were for common sorts, ugly and unrefined.

He so wished he could tell her that her children and nieces and nephews would all have one fifty years from then.

"A youthful blunder, I'm afraid," he said with a wink. "The scar was a blessing in disguise. I would consider it a lucky break, if it hadn't almost killed me."

"Bellatrix," Hermione snarled under her breath, looking murderous.

He hummed. "Bellatrix," he murmured in repeat. The name felt like poison on his tongue. He sighed, shook the memory from his head, and looked up. "Surely we will be fashionable enough if we leave now?" He pouted. "I'm a bit hungry, if we're being honest."

Raven rolled her eyes as Iris knelt at her feet, adjusting the hem of her dress. "Feel free to take Snowborn and go without us, Draco," she said, pulling her mask up to give him an impatient look. "Heaven forbid we keep a growing boy from his dinner."

He looked to Sabrina and bounced his eyebrows suggestively. "Snowborn?"

She rolled her eyes, but smiled and held out her hand. He took it, and immediately brought it up to his lips, which had her clearing her throat to hide the hitch in her breath and had Iris sighing romantically. "I suppose we'll see you lovely ladies in a few minutes, then," Sabrina said with a smile. "Try not to be too late!"

Violet waved her off. "There is a fine line between fashionable and tacky, Snowborn," she said haughtily. "I wouldn't be caught dead in the latter. Rest assured I'll have these miscreants down to the Great Hall in due time."

Draco huffed out a laugh and caught Hermione's weary gaze once more before he pulled Sabrina towards the portrait door. "See you in a bit," he said.

"See you," Raven said in return, wiggling her fingers at them absently.

As soon as they were out in the hallway, Draco breathed a sigh of relief. "I was starting to feel claustrophobic in there," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Too many girls in one room."

Sabrina giggled, and he pulled her down the hall, clutching his cane in his other hand – it was disguised cleverly as a spear. Hermione had affixed his circular shield to hang on the back of his linothorax, the piece of bronze and leather armor that encased his torso. Already hating the feel of the helmet on his head, he pulled it off and tucked it under one arm.

Feeling spontaneous – and rather robust, considering all the extra potions he took earlier in the evening – he ducked into an alcove – the entrance to a secret passageway covered by a tapestry not too far from the Great Hall (unbeknownst to him, it was the same one Hermione had ducked into just a few weeks earlier to escape Tom Riddle after breakfast). Sabrina yelped in surprise, and he snapped his fingers, muttering a quick _Incendio_ to light the single sconce on the wall.

Sabrina held a hand to her chest. "I had no idea this was even here," she whispered with a dimpled grin. "Amazing! How did you find it?"

"It was an accident, actually," he said, lying only partially. "Got a bit tired on my way back from dinner a few days ago, and stopped for a lean – only to find that there was nothing to lean _upon._ Just tapestry. I nearly fell." Boldly, he reached a hand up to fun a finger down her cheek. Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed with that pale rosy color that he'd come to relish. He exhaled heavily through his nose, and then gave her a cheeky smile. "If I were to kiss you, would you protest?"

To her credit, she gave him an equally cheeky smile. "Why on earth would I do something silly like _protest?"_ She scoffed. "Honestly, Draco. What kind of fool do you think I am?"

He ran his thumb across her bottom lip, and her mouth parted, her breath rushing out against his skin. "I'm the fool, I think," he whispered.

Then he leaned down, and kissed her.

* * *

oooo

"You look _disgustingly_ handsome."

Hermione made sure to put as much revulsion into her tone as she could manage, her eyes roving over his form in a way she hoped made him uncomfortable. Her nostrils flared as she accepted the cup of punch that he had brought her. He'd managed to make his way to the front of the hall before she'd descended the last step, and he helped her down from it now, grasping her fingers in his and staring at her as if he'd found God.

"And you," he said, his voice hoarse with obvious desire, "are the most beautiful creature in the room."

She rolled her eyes, feeling rather sour. She hated the way her heart rate doubled at the sincerity in his voice. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Yes, well, your little bit of playacting in Madame Mystique's two weekends ago motivated Fawley to become _matchmaker,"_ she said, glaring at him hatefully. "Believe me. Short of _Avada_ -ing her, I had no choice but to let her wrestle me into this ridiculous dress." She narrowed her eyes, and took a long draught of the bright orange punch that glowed in the dim lighting of the hall.

"Who said anything about acting?" he said in rebuttal.

She rolled her eyes. "Don't play at sincerity, Tom," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Honesty doesn't suit you."

He chuckled, but shook his head in exasperation. "An argument to have another time, perhaps," he said. Like her, he was conscious of the fact that they had an audience, even if they were speaking too low for anyone to hear.

She narrowed her eyes, but did not otherwise acknowledge his statement. "Did Edmond spike the punch again?" she asked, sipping again at her drink but not detecting anything in particular.

He held out his elbow, and without thinking she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. She let him guide her over to where the rest of her "birds" stood at the refreshment table, eating canapés and sipping on their own glasses of luridly colored punch. "Not tonight," he said. "Dippet _and_ Dumbledore are here tonight. It would be foolish to risk it. Slughorn's parties are easy. Dippet almost never goes to those, or at least doesn't stay for more than a few minutes. And Dumbledore almost always has better things to do."

Hermione shrugged, frowning. "I can't claim to know Professor Dumbledore very well," she lied, "but I hardly think he's the type to care about a few students spiking the punch."

Tom snorted. "Only when it's Slytherins doing the spiking," he said. She did not imagine the bitterness in his voice.

"Ah, yes, I see," she said quietly. "It's funny – by the bitterness in your tone I would think that you might be more open to my inter-house unity agenda. And yet you look upon it with disdain," she said as they drew nearer to where her friends stood.

"Hermione!" Iris called, effectively cutting off whatever response he would have given. The blonde smiled dazzlingly. "Come on, you barely ate anything at lunch," she said, handing Hermione a small plate she'd loaded up with food. "You must be hungry."

Hermione took the plate from her friend with a grateful smile. "You aren't wrong," she said, popping a stuffed date in her mouth. She swallowed. "I'm starving. I suppose I got all caught up in the stress of preparing for the ball."

Iris smiled and smoothed her hands along Hermione's arms affectionately. "Did I not do a spectacular job, Mister Riddle?" Iris said teasingly, twirling Hermione under her arm. She tolerated it, simply because she knew the blonde was proud of the cosmetic miracles she'd worked.

Tom smiled from behind his mask. "Stunning, Miss Fawley. I give you credit where credit is due."

Hermione rolled her eyes just as Zuri did the same. "Merlin," the dark-haired Gryffindor said tiredly, her eyes flashing gold with Iris' magic, "you two make it sound like she was some sort of hideous goblin before."

"Yeah," Ignatius said, piping up from where he leaned against the wall next to Pepper, stuffing his face with food. "It's not like 'Mione hasn't always been pretty."

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes. "Good Godric, can we _not_ talk about me like I'm some sort of prized crup?" she said with an impatient tap of her foot. Irritably, she stuffed another canapé in her mouth, glaring around at her friends. On some level, she was pleased with the praise; the level that was susceptible to the typical insecurities of a young woman who had never been the most beautiful girl in the room. Still. It was the principle of it.

"You should have seen her hair when we were kids," a voice came from behind her, right as Draco dropped a fond kiss on the top of her head. "It was a bloody mess." She turned to glare at her childhood nemesis just as he snagged a piece of finger food from her plate and popped it into his mouth. He looked positively gleeful, and judging from the "fool in love" expression on Sabrina's face she guessed it might have something to do with the prospect of them necking in some corner like foolish teenagers. She couldn't be sure, of course. That was just a theory.

She couldn't help the pang of sorrow that came with the image of Draco being physical with another girl. It wasn't jealousy – the time for that had long since come and gone, if it had ever existed at all. But there was still that sadness; the sadness that came with missed opportunities.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever," she muttered sullenly.

Tom raised his eyebrows at her best friend. "Mars?"

Draco sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "Of course not _Mars._ I'm _Ares._ Ares is the only god of war that actually _counts._ The Greeks came first. The Romans stole practically everything from the Greeks. So no, not _Mars._ You insult me."

Tom laughed, and Hermione's nostrils flared as the sound triggered something pleasurable in her brain. "Oh, of course – my mistake. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," Draco said, sounding rather chipper, especially given the fact that he was talking to Lord _fucking_ Voldemort. He slanted a look at the dark haired Slytherin destined to become the world's most evil warlord. "Phantom of the Opera?"

Tom smirked. "Well spotted."

Draco shrugged. "I'm a fan."

"Oh, me too," gushed Iris. "And you pull it off so well."

Hermione nodded begrudgingly in agreement. He did pull it off. The white mask was affixed magically to his face, covering half of it, as was the style of the Phantom of the Opera. It contrasted starkly with his dark eyes and hair, and curved enticingly around the bow of his upper lip. His hair was swept back from his face with some sort of product, and, as usual, framed his bone structure perfectly. He wore black trousers and a double-breasted black vest with a textured pattern, and she idly ran her finger along the raised velvet design. His shirt was crisp and white, and his bowtie black silk. On his shoulders he wore a black cape that didn't hang much lower than his hips. The inside lining was a shade of red so deep it was hardly distinguishable. And pinned to the lapel of his vest was a single red rose.

"Thank you," Tom said graciously. He turned to Hermione, catching the hand that had been idly tracing the pattern on his vest. "Care for a dance?"

"Of course," Hermione answered easily. "Just as soon as I pay my respects to the rest of my friends," she said, taking a gulp of punch to wash down her food. She spotted Conan Avery and Edmond Lestrange standing together in a corner, looking equally bored – Edmond was dressed as the Grim Reaper, and Conan looked like he had put the minimal effort into a bat costume. "I'll only be a minute. Excuse me."

Before she could give him an excuse to accompany her, she floated over to the corner where the two clever Slytherin students stood, conscious of the many eyes that drifted away from conversations to stare after her.

Bloody costume. Bloody Iris.

Steeling her resolve and holding her head high, she swept into their personal space. "Gentlemen," she said in greeting, wishing desperately for something alcoholic.

"Granger," Edmond said in return, pulling his mask down and raising an eyebrow at her appearance. As if able to read her thoughts, he discreetly pulled a flask from his cloak pocket.

She snatched it from him immediately. "You are a bloody _saint,"_ she breathed. She took a big swig, and swallowed, her eyebrows shooting up as she struggled not to cough. "Is that…is that _moonshine?"_ she asked incredulously, taking another huge gulp before handing it back to her unlikely compatriot with a nod of thanks.

Edmond grinned and took a swig of his own before offering it to Conan. The younger boy declined, and Edmond tucked the flask back into his robes. "The Americans are good for something, it seems," he said in answer.

Hermione cocked her head. "Tastes kind of like…cinnamon."

"Apple pie flavor," he confirmed with an appreciative nod. "You look…nice," he complimented.

"Thank you," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Any thoughts on when it might be acceptable for me to leave without offending anyone?"

Conan snorted. "Usually around ten the Slytherins go back to our dorm for a bit of an after party." He shrugged, his face as expressionless as ever. "I'm sure Riddle would be _delighted_ to have you join us."

Edmond snorted, and she glared resentfully at both of them. "Oh, I just bet he would."

"Hey Granger."

Hermione turned just as Primrose Selwyn slid up next to her, looking nervous. Her eyes were the same cobalt shade as Pansy's. Hermione held her best friend's grandmother's gaze, even though it made her want to cry a little.

"Hello, Selwyn," she said stiffly. "How are you?"

"I'm…I'm well," the other girl said, tucking an errant piece of black hair behind her ear. "I actually thought I'd invite you to a party tonight – "

"The one in the Slytherin commons?" Hermione interrupted curiously.

"Well, yes – did someone already ask you?" the girl said, licking her lips anxiously.

"Not officially, no," she answered. "But I would be delighted. I appreciate the invitation."

Primrose smiled. "Oh, erm, no problem. Also, I love your costume."

Hermione gave her a gracious nod. "Thank you." She looked at the paltry pair of fairy wings on Selwyn's back. "Here," she said, slipping her hand into a very artful slit in the skirt of her dress and drawing her bright wand from its place tucked into her stocking. _"Animatus."_

Selwyn jumped as her wings fluttered and came to life, and looked back at them in wonder. "Wow!" she said breathily, beaming at Hermione. "Thanks!"

She smiled at the silly Slytherin girl. "Any time. So…will you just find me when you leave the Great Hall, then?" she asked.

Primrose bobbed her head. "Don't worry, I won't forget."

When she turned awkwardly and left, Hermione spun back to Edmond and Conan. "That was odd."

Avery raised an eyebrow. "I don't trust odd."

Hermione grinned at him. "Me neither. But hey, I've got you two to watch my back. You wouldn't let anything nefarious happen to me, would you?"

Edmond swallowed. "Of course not," he hedged, looking nervous.

She patted him fondly on the arm. "Thanks ever so, Edmond," she said, smiling at him knowingly when his eyes slid over to where Rosier stood talking to Druella, Cygnus and Thoros (the latter of whom looked monumentally bored). "What do you say I go rescue Nott from the three trolls he seems to be trapped with?"

Avery choked on his punch, and Edmond made no effort to hide his laughter. He lifted his flask to her in tribute. "I say that's an honorable endeavor, Miss Granger," he said, handing her the flask so she could take another sip. "Good luck."

She winked at them, and swept away, smiling at Thoros when he noticed her approach and waved.

"Hello, Thoros," she said as she approached, going up on her tiptoes to kiss him on he cheek.

"Hullo, Hermione," he said, the spark in his greenish eyes betraying his relief. Black and both Rosiers glared at her for her interruption, but she paid them no mind. "You look lovely this evening. A phoenix, I presume?"

She winked and gave him a jesting curtsey. "Excellent guess. And…King Arthur?"

"Right on the first," he said with a smirk, flicking the gold crown on his head with an audible _dong._ "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I was actually hoping I might borrow you for just a moment," she said, a smirk playing around her lips. "I'm sure your companions won't mind?" she said, her gaze sliding briefly over to the three people he was with. She tried to ignore the way Cygnus so reminded her of Narcissa, and the way Druella so reminded her of Bellatrix, and the way Gavin's blue eyes looked exactly like his son's had when he'd had rape on his mind.

 _That's the past now, Hermione,_ she said to herself. _You can't keep getting caught up in those memories._

Thoros looked apologetically at his housemates. "Talk to you later?" he suggested. Before Druella could open her big mouth to respond, Thoros had taken her arm and twirled her away.

"You're welcome," Hermione said with a chuckle. Thoros rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

"Thank God for you, Hermione," he said, patting her on the arm. "I swear, they become less tolerable by the day."

"That implies that they were ever tolerable to begin with," she muttered harshly, snatching an apple slice from a nearby passing tray and biting down on it with a satisfying crunch. She imagined it was the bones of her enemies; and then felt slightly monstrous, and swallowed, the taste of the apple souring on her tongue.

Thoros shrugged. "They weren't always so bad. Cygnus was all right, before he was betrothed to the wicked witch. And Gavin and I used to play together as kids, before we came to Hogwarts."

"Did you?" she asked quietly, her eyes tracking Tom's movement as he slid across the floor towards them. "Boss man at three o'clock."

"Uh oh," Thoros said teasingly. "I better surrender now. It looks like he has intentions."

Hermione snorted, and turned to him just as Tom appeared in front of them, looking somewhat impatient. "Well," Hermione said, "you're welcome for the rescue."

"Oh yes, thank you," Thoros said with mischievous wink. "Whatever would I do without you, O Savior Mine?"

Hermione nodded determinedly. "That's right, and don't you forget it." She grinned at him as she reached out to take Tom's hand. "Save me a dance later?"

"If the lady wishes," he said cavalierly. He nodded to Tom. "My Lord." Then he left, walking over towards where Greengrass and Flynn stood talking.

Hermione paused. She wondered if he knew he'd screwed up by calling Riddle "My Lord" in public. By the confidence of his retreating swagger, she doubted it. Tom, however, had frozen, and fury flashed in his eyes.

Sensing impending punishment for Thoros, she shushed Tom before he had a chance to excuse himself. "Dance with me?"

He cleared his throat, and she got the feeling he was about to refuse for the sake of dealing with his errant minion.

"Come now, Tom," she said, trapping his eyes with her own. "You should give Nott a free pass, at least for tonight." She gave him a sassy grin. "You can punish him later for his little slip up." She squeezed his fingers. If he was surprised at her lack of reaction, he did not show it.

Finally, he nodded, and she allowed him to sweep her out onto the dance floor, where she wiggled her fingers at a dancing Kat Agory and Buzz Johnson. They smiled back at her, and Kat winked at her when Tom laid a hand on her waist. Picking up her right foot, she stepped.

And then they were whirling around the room, and she was smiling up into his dark eyes.

"Knut for your thoughts?" she asked teasingly.

His nostrils flared. "Just musing about how every time I think I might have you partially figured out, you manage to surprise me. Again."

She threw back her head and laughed. "Oh, Tom," she said, a terrifying, unwelcome fondness welling up in her heart. "You will never have me figured out, partially or otherwise." She cocked her head. "But one thing I'm sure you can guess."

He rolled his eyes. "Enlighten me."

She motioned for him to lean down closer to her, and he did so with only a second's hesitation. "I will never call you 'My Lord,'" she whispered, sliding her hand from the tense muscle in his shoulder to his chest.

He hummed. "Never?" he asked quietly, looking at her with an inscrutable expression.

She gave him a scorching smile. "Well, unless it's a particular kink of yours," she purred. "Then I might be talked into it." The music ended, and the dancers all came to a stop, some separating, some just waiting for a new song to begin. She stared up into his face. "I might be persuaded to moan it while I'm bouncing on your cock – if you can convince me it's worth it."

The choked noise he made in the back of his throat had her laughing in delight. The music started up again. "Again?" she asked with a smile.

Glaring, he twirled her.

* * *

oooo

 **Much drama to come!**

 **Snippet from next chapter:**

 _She snorted in disdain. "I'm embarrassed for you," she finished scathingly. "You and your paltry parlor tricks."_

 _Draining her punch, she tossed the empty chalice at Druella's feet. The girl and her fiancé both flinched violently at the impact._

 **Next chapter will be up tomorrow or Tuesday. Thanks for being ever so patient with me! I recently got a little bit of a motivation boost for this story. Dunno how long it will last, but hopefully I'll get enough reviews that it will propel me forwards.**

 **Love you guys!**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	28. Chapter 28

**This chapter: 1) a lot of dialogue 2) some brief nudity 3) alcoholic beverages 4) Conan Avery showing emotion 5) scheming women.**

 **All right, here we go! Chapter 28!**

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oooo

You better take it from me  
That boy is like a disease  
You're runnin' and tryin' and tryin' to hide  
And you're wondering why you can't get free  
He's like a curse; he's like a drug  
You get addicted to his love  
You wanna get out, but he's holding ya down  
'Cause you can't live without one more touch

Run, run away, don't let him mess with your mind  
He'll tell you anything you wanna hear  
He'll break your heart; it's just a matter of time  
But just remember

He's a good time cowboy Casanova  
Leaning up against the record machine  
He looks like a cool drink of water  
But he's candy-coated misery  
He's the devil in disguise  
A snake with blue eyes  
And he only comes out at night  
Gives you feelings that you don't wanna fight  
You better run for your life  
-"Cowboy Casanova" by Carrie Underwood

It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. – Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (trans.)

Both old and young alike ought to seek wisdom: the former in order that, as age comes over him, he may be young in good things because of the grace of what has been, and the latter in order that, while he is young, he may at the same time be old, because he has no fear of the things which are to come. –Epicurus

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. It may not be difficult to store up in the mind a vast quantity of facts within a comparatively short time, but the ability to form judgments requires the severe discipline of hard work and the tempering heat of experience and maturity. –Calvin Coolidge

Where do you find the strength to brave a barrage of enemy fire and to bring your wounded friends to safety at great risk to your own life? Conviction. –Guy Verhofstadt

Women who stay true to themselves are always more interesting and beautiful to me: women like Frida Kahlo, Georgia O'Keeffe and Anna Magnani - women who have style, chic, allure and elegance. They didn't submit to any standard of beauty - they defined it. –Isabella Rossellini

* * *

oooo

"Ah. Now that, my friends, is a thing of beauty."

Thoros smirked at her as she nodded in the direction of the punch bowl – except instead of luminescent orange, this was glow-in-the-dark green. Fitting, considering the location; it was undoubtedly spiked.

Hermione had never been to the Slytherin common room – she'd only seen a glimpse of it from Harry's memories, once upon a time. It was somehow both opulent and cold, all black marble and green velvet and silver sconces that flickered with flame. Even the fire down here seemed cool, somehow. Alphard Black was poking at the hot coals in the fireplace, coaxing the flames back to life. She helped him along with a whispered word, and winked at him when he turned sharply to look at her. A small smile played around his handsome lips, and she felt her heart ache with how much she missed Sirius.

Primrose gave her a tremulous smile. "So how does it compare to the Gryffindor common room?" she asked, brushing nervously at her bangs. Hermione had never seen the shallow Slytherin so nervous before, and suspicion once again filled her. She impatiently shoved it away. She would think about Primrose later. Right now she was effectively distracted by the group of costumed students that cluttered the space, and by the feel of Tom's fingers brushing the laces of her dress as he stood behind her.

"Not quite as cozy," she answered, looking through a giant glass window and into the Black Lake. She could see nothing, of course. Only a subtle green glow and some shapeless shadows as the light from the fireplace and sconces bounced off the glass. "But it has its own charm," she said honestly. "I like it."

"Oh yes," Druella said from the corner, raising a haughty eyebrow. Her voice carried, and the chatter in the room quieted to a murmur as people turned to look at Hermione upon her entrance. "I'd forgotten that Primrose invited you." She curled her lip, and Hermione noticed how Selwyn's eyes dropped hastily to the floor. "Well then," the pretty blonde continued, looking somewhat bored. "I suppose we should welcome you. You _are_ the first Gryffindor student to ever make it into the Slytherin common room, after all. Congratulations."

Hermione gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Rosier." Indeed, as she looked around, she noticed that she was the only Gryffindor. There were a handful of Ravenclaws, and even one Hufflepuff in the form of Violet's younger sister Camellia. But no Gryffindors. Raven winked at her from her place against the wall, though, and she instantly felt more relaxed.

"Well, she's a bit of an honorary Slytherin," Violet said with a cock of her head, still looking stunning as an augurey. Pansy would have been proud of Hermione's costume work tonight. The thought made her swell with love for her departed friend.

"Weren't you almost sorted into Slytherin, Granger?" Edmond said, pulling his flask out and taking a sip as he stepped further into the room. She followed his lead, and nodded her head.

"The hat changed its mind last minute," she said with a shrug. "But only because I look far better in red than I do green," she finished, winking at Violet and Raven, who grinned back. "I like to think of myself as a Gryfferin." She frowned and put a finger to her chin. "Or does Slythindor sound better?"

"Definitely Slythindor," snorted Alphard from his position at the fireplace, the flickering flames casting his features in a roguish light. "Slides off the tongue easier."

Hermione nodded, smiling. "Either way, I appreciate you welcoming me to your snakes' den," she said, giving a theatric curtsey. "Much obliged."

"Our pleasure, of course," Druella said, her voice and eyes still cool. "Would you care for a drink?" Before Hermione could answer, the blonde turned to her betrothed. "Cygnus, darling, would you be a dear and fetch our guest a glass of punch?"

Cygnus nodded obediently, bowing his head and moving to stand behind the punch table. He ladled some of the glowing green liquid into a cup, and she watched him closely. Of course, she was paying such close attention to the contents of the glass that she only just noticed that Cygnus was wearing gloves as she took the cup from his proffered hand.

But it was too late. The damage had been done.

Hermione closed her eyes, mourning her stupidity as she felt the cool air of the dungeons brush against what was now very bare skin. Magic fizzled and popped under her hand as she continued to grasp the glass Black had given her, and the occupants in the room gasped. Summoning her courage and opening her eyes, she took stock of the damage.

At least she wasn't naked. Her shoes and gown were gone, but her undergarments remained. Her modesty was preserved only by her bra, knickers, garter belt and stockings, all spun from the finest silk money could buy. They were a warm ivory color with gold lace accents. Ginny had given them to her to wear underneath her wedding dress on the day she'd married Ron.

And now they were all that kept every set of eyes in the room from seeing her naked – scars and all.

She cleared her throat, her eyes meeting Violet's just as the girl clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. Raven, looking quietly furious, stepped towards her, no doubt intending on providing her some cover. Hermione gave her a minute shake of the head, and her friend froze, her eyebrows drawing together. Some girls in the back tittered, and she heard a loud guffaw from who she thought might be Flint.

She cocked her head and turned, surveying the room. Everyone stared, some looking embarrassed on her behalf, some looking amused, some looking downright gleeful; she filed away the faces of the latter for later reference. She looked at Tom, who looked equal parts angry, shocked and lustful. Edmond looked horrified, and she saw him suck in a breath when her magic inadvertently slid through the room on dark, vicious tendrils. Thoros looked like he'd been slapped, his eyes darting back and forth between her breasts, her face and his Lord. Mulciber sweated from his spot behind Tom, refusing to look at her. Dolohov ate an apple from the corner, looking completely at ease, his oily black gaze sliding over her body, lingering on the thin purple scar his adult self had given her so many years ago. Oddly enough, Gavin Rosier was nowhere to be seen – she had suspected he would be part of a dumb prank like this. Conan looked unfazed, as usual, although there was something in his eyes that suggested potential satisfaction at the notion of her punishing whomever was responsible.

Smart boy.

Fury welled within her, pounding through her bloodstream alongside profound embarrassment. Shaking the unhelpful feelings away, she met Tom's dark gaze again briefly before her eyes slid over to where Primrose stood near the door, looking as guilty as guilty could be.

Her nostrils flared. She felt her own magic start to steal the air from the room, and the blaze in the hearth flared as she struggled to control her power, soothing Fawkes' irritation away. She saw Edmond swallow from out of the corner of her eye. Alphard took a step away from the fire, frowning. She noticed that he looked profoundly annoyed, and she followed his stare as it wandered judgmentally to his younger brother, whose grey eyes, despite the overall impassiveness of his face, were smug. She caught the quirking of his lips.

Hermione gave him a slow grin, her mortification and self-consciousness fading in the heavy shadow of her rage. "Did you imagine that this would _embarrass_ me?" she asked coyly, raising her eyebrow in skepticism. Uncertainty glimmered in the third-year's eyes.

She was above this. She was above _them._ She was stronger, smarter, better. She was not unattractive. She was wealthier than any of them, and she was best friends with a man who looked like a god – and she was loved and desired by him. And she was desired by the devil himself – the first woman Tom Riddle had ever been remotely interested in. She had also been chosen by a phoenix to merge with – if she was worthy of Fawkes, she was worthy of anyone. She had every reason to feel confident.

That was the mantra she recited in her head, at least.

She slowly slipped her wand from where it was tucked into the top of her stocking, the bright reddish pink wood warm against her skin. Wordlessly, she disarmed Draco's future grandparents, ignoring their gasps of outrage. Octavia Bulstrode, a sixth year that idolized Druella, made a noise in the back of her throat and stepped forward from the crowd. Hermione's head whipped around to look at her. Under her furious stare, the younger girl swallowed and moved back, seeming to think better of it.

Tom finally stepped forward and swung his cape from his shoulders, still looking furious on her behalf. She refused the offer for cover, instead handing him the two confiscated wands. He narrowed his eyes at her, but respected her wishes, for once keeping his mouth closed; instead he handed the wands off to Avery, who pocketed them quickly, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall as amusement flashed across his cold blue stare. Tom stepped back in deference.

Primrose she ignored, for now – the girl looked like she was about to faint, sweaty and pale and looking the picture of fearful regret. No; it was obvious as to who the mastermind behind this little prank was. Turning to where Cygnus stood next to his fiancé, she leveled her wand at Druella, who looked haughty as ever, despite her recent lack of wand. The blonde crossed her arms, but did not speak.

"Again: did you really think your little prank would have me running back to my dorm in tears?" she continued mockingly. As a lioness stalked her prey, she stepped closer to them, dragging her stockinged feet across the marble floor and enjoying the coolness of it against her toes.

Rosier and Black were both silent. Druella sneered at her and Cygnus looked angry, but she still recognized the flickering of fear in their eyes. Fools. Stalking even closer, she raised her hand and let her wand rest ever-so-lightly against Druella's shoulder. The blonde swallowed.

Hermione smiled inside. She had always enjoyed a bit of showmanship.

"Did you think to expose all of my ugly scars to the world?" she asked bitterly, tapping her wand against Druella's cat costume in an unspoken threat. She paused. The silence in the room hung heavy and thick in the air. "Shall I tell you how I got each of them?" she suggested, cocking her head to the side. Her earrings still dangled from her ears, and she still felt the tiara and feathers in her hair. So just the dress and shoes, then. "Since you seem so curious."

She pointed to a waxy pink scar on her left palm, about an inch long; there was a corresponding mark on the back of her hand, effectively obliterating the _I Shall Not Break Rules_ that Umbridge had put there in fifth year. "This one," she began, her body going taut as foul memories flooded in, "is from when I was captured as a prisoner of war for two months and tortured," she said blithely. "A woman stabbed a knife through my hand to keep me pinned to the floor. Turns out I wasn't still enough for her tastes as she pried the toenails from my feet and held me under the _Cruciatus_ for minutes at a time." Surprise and horror flashed through Druella's mahogany gaze. Hermione grinned. "Who knew hands and feet bled so much?" she jested, a cruel smile curving on her lips as she narrowed her eyes on the mother of the woman who had taken such delight in torturing her.

Twirling around, she continued, pulling her mass of curls off of her neck to reveal a series of brown spots at her nape. "This one is from that same woman's husband," she revealed, pressing her finger into one of the little indentations. "He was fond of cleated boots," she continued conversationally.

She ran a hand along the scar on her stomach. The one from Dolohov's spell – the one that would have killed her, if she hadn't silenced him before he'd been able to say it aloud. Her eyes flickered over to him briefly, before they settled back on Tom, who watched her with greedy intrigue, and then flashed back to Druella. "This one is an internal scar," she said absently. "A stain on the skin, if you will. The real damage is on the inside. A man cursed me when I was sixteen," she said with a nostalgic smile. "And I got him thrown in prison. Thwarted by a student," she bit out with a grin. "How very embarrassing."

She met Druella's stare again, and brought a finger up to her right ear to run it along a notch in the shell. "This is from a slicing hex that missed me by a hair." She brought her hand down to her back next, tracing it along the ropey scars from the manticore. "These, as nearly everyone knows by now, are from a particularly amorous manticore whose sleep I so foolishly disturbed. And these," she said, sticking out her right calf, "are from a cannibalistic werewolf." She tilted her head, staring at the hideous stripes on her skin. "He and his pack ate one of my schoolmates alive in front of my eyes," she murmured nonchalantly. "Just tore into him like a Christmas ham." She licked her chops and gnashed her teeth teasingly, and Cygnus shifted uncomfortably as Hermione heard someone behind her mutter _'Merlin'_ under their breath. "On the day I got these scars, Draco had to save his closest childhood friend from a similar fate with an _Avada_ to the face," she drawled, her heart constricting painfully at the memory of Pansy's pleading eyes. "She begged for a quick death. And he obliged, of course, because he loved her."

Druella swallowed, the horror mounting in her eyes. "Do you want to know how I got this one?" Hermione asked with a giggle, pointing at a little white mark on the back of her thigh, barely bigger than her pinky nail. "I sat on a quill," she said with a roll of her eyes, grinning. "Third year. And this one," she said, running her finger along a faint silvery mark at her hairline, "was from a troll. It got into the school my first year, and I just happened to be in the particular lavatory it wanted to smash up." She shrugged. "Oops."

Boldly, she reached down and caught Druella's hand in her own. "This one," she said more quietly, running the girl's pointer finger over the silver slash on her throat, "was from a cursed knife. I got it years ago, long before I was captured. But the same woman who was in charge of my torture gave it to me. So by the time I was caught, her hatred of me had only tripled." She cocked her head. "I was the girl that got away, you see."

She paused, and then let Druella's hand drop. The girl couldn't hide her shiver of relief. "Do you know what I did to that woman, Rosier?" she asked quietly.

Druella quivered, and shook her head. Hermione grinned. "I melted the flesh from her bones," she said conversationally, her gaze boring into the eyes that Bellatrix would one day inherit. "I watched, and laughed, as she dissolved slowly and painfully before my very eyes. And all that was left afterwards was a sticky, steaming pile of bone, blood and hair." She ran a hand along Druella's sharp cheekbone in a parody of comfort. "The sounds she made as her eyeballs liquefied were practically music to my ears."

"Granger," Alphard said under his breath, looking a bit ill. She turned her gaze to him. His eyes pled with her to stop.

"Sorry for the graphics," Hermione purred, looking back to the horrified betrothed couple, "but I find that visuals are generally helpful when trying to get a point across." She cracked her neck, delighting in the muscle that jerked in Cygnus' cheek. "So, _Rosier,"_ she continued, her voice betraying no shortage of loathing. "Do you think – _really_ think – that losing my dress at a pretentious _school_ party in front of a bunch of young, trivial, practically _harmless_ students is going to cow me? That it's somehow going to intimidate me into remembering the _status quo?"_ She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "How utterly… _disappointing._ How very _uncreative._ " She snorted in disdain. "I'm embarrassed for you," she finished scathingly. "You and your paltry parlor tricks."

Draining her punch, she tossed the empty chalice at Druella's feet. The girl and her fiancé both flinched violently at the impact.

"Now," she said, rubbing her hands together cheerily, feeling vindicated. She turned to Selwyn, who by now was a very interesting shade of grey and looked to be fighting back tears. "Primrose, darling, do be a dear and tell me where my clothes have gotten off to?"

Pansy's grandmother swallowed. "Th-they should be in a broom closet on the third floor," she answered hastily.

"Excellent," Hermione said. The room was still deathly silent. She pointed her wand from Selwyn to Rosier to the youngest Black. "One of you is going to go get them," she said cheerily. Despite her merry voice, her tone brooked no argument. "Naked." She paused. " _Which_ one of you does so depends entirely on who is the last one to kneel at my feet. Go."

Primrose dropped immediately and without hesitation, terrified tears finally breaking free from her eyes and streaming down her face. Druella hesitated, but then blanched and did the same. Hermione looked at Cygnus. He crossed his arms and scoffed.

"Would you prefer the _Imperius_ curse?" she said with a sharp smile. "Don't make the mistake of thinking your last name protects you, _Black,"_ she said, her smile morphing into an acidic stare. "It doesn't."

Under her heavy glare, he finally swallowed and began to strip. She hummed in pleasure. "Excellent. So glad you could see things my way," she said sweetly. She tilted her head. "Don't worry, I'll let you keep your underwear," she said. "Since you somehow found the common decency to allow me mine."

He was blushing furiously by the time he moved towards the door, his toned, adolescent frame bare to every gaze – as hers was. "Oh and Cygnus," she added as his hand touched the wall, the stone parting smoothly to reveal the hallway beyond. "You can have your wand back when you return. Do try not to get caught."

She gave him a reassuring smile as he sent her an apprehensive stare, and then the stone closed behind him.

* * *

oooo

The room was uncomfortably silent after Black was gone. Tom watched in rapture as the vengeful goddess before him touched both Druella and Primrose on their bowed, trembling heads and signaled for them to get to their feet. They did so, still staring down at the floor. Hermione looked around the room, taking in the blatant discomfort on the students' faces. Even Dolohov shifted on his feet, looking slightly uneasy.

"If I hear a _hint_ of what happened here outside this room," she said casually, "I will peel the flesh from the perpetrator's bones with the knife that gave me this scar." Once again she pointed to the pale silver thread that crossed her throat. Tom saw Druella visibly tremble. "And then I will feed the pieces to my cat. Is that clear? Does anyone have any questions?"

No one in the room spoke.

"Good," she said cheerily. "Then perhaps someone could fetch me something a bit stronger than spiked punch?" she suggested.

Immediately Thoros jolted out of his trance, and jerkily disappeared through an archway before coming back with a bottle of firewhisky. "Tom said you were partial to Blishen's," he said, handing her the bottle. His voice was just shy of steady.

She looked over to Tom and gave him a slow smile. "Tom was right," she said, inclining her head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Thoros."

He hummed in response and conjured a glass. He held it as she poured, and when finished handed her the glass.

She took a big swallow and closed her eyes, humming in satisfaction. "Nothing quite like firewhisky," she said appreciatively, opening her eyes and raising her glass to Tom and Thoros. "Except for maybe a good Muggle scotch." She looked around the room. "Well, don't all just stand there like idiots. This is a party, isn't it? I was under the impression that Slytherins threw the best ones." She sipped again at her glass, looking over the rim at where Raven and Violet stood as still as statues. "A harmless prank shouldn't spoil it. Please, now that this little spectacle has played out, feel free to mingle."

For a moment there was stillness, and then Dolohov shifted on his feet, and gradually people started to move again. It was as if the crowd had taken one big sigh of relief and, even though she was still being stared at a good bit, people began to murmur to each other and soon enough the energy of the room was close to normal.

Tom's eyes flickered up as Raven came to stand by her Gryffindor friend's side, gently touching her elbow. "Hermione?" she said quietly. Violet hung back with crossed arms, somehow looking both irate on Granger's behalf and fearful of the very girl in question.

Hermione raised an eyebrow in question. Flynn gave her a gentle smile – it was the first time he had seen her actually smile rather than smirk. "Would you like to borrow something of mine?"

Granger grinned. "Thank you, Raven, but no. The whole point of this silly little prank was to make me uncomfortable." She turned to Primrose and Druella, who still stood looking down at the ground in obvious fear. She patted Selwyn on the cheek. "Isn't that right, Selwyn?"

The pale girl cleared her throat. "Y-yes."

She turned to Druella. "Druella, darling, have you anything to add?"

Rosier shook her head mutely. Tom's stomach clenched in satisfaction.

"Well, as you can see, I'm not uncomfortable," she continued on conversationally. "A bit chilly, yes. But I find it rather freeing," she admitted, extending her arms out to her sides, still clutching her glass in one hand. He swallowed at the way it bared her chest even further to his gaze. "I also find it highly amusing that, despite my state of undress, I seem to be the least uncomfortable person in the room. Especially compared to these two gems." She reached out and brushed Druella's bangs away from her face; somehow, even her tenderness was threatening. "Salazar would be so proud," she finished, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Go get your wand from Conan." Druella practically ran away, Primrose hot on her heels.

She turned back to Raven. "So you see, I'm perfectly at ease without robes," she said, finishing her drink and extending her arm towards Thoros in silent demand; he obeyed immediately. Tom shivered with her power; not only her magical power, but also the power she exerted over these people with the sheer force of her personality. She was like him; but unlike him, she let that power run wild, because she could afford to disrupt things and step on some toes – he could not. He had to be subtler about it, use a lot more honey and a lot less poison, a lot more carrot and a lot less stick. But she commanded these people in a manner he envied – in a manner he would one day be able to do. "I'm too busy reveling in everyone _else's_ awkwardness to feel self-conscious." She winked at Thoros when he was done pouring her another drink, and Tom stifled a snigger when his follower almost lost his grip on the bottle. "An interesting role reversal."

A smirk spread across Raven's face. "I don't know how you do it, Granger."

The Gryffindor smiled. "It's simple," she provided carelessly. "Spend a few years on the battlefield, in a position of command, and you learn very quickly who you are. I might look like I've been carved up, and I'm certainly not the most beautiful girl out there – but I know who I am, inside and out. And that gives me confidence." She cocked her head. "It gives me the confidence to challenge the status quo, and gives me the confidence to step into a leadership role when called for. It makes it easier to make decisions. It's the same confidence and self-awareness that everyone ended up developing, where I'm from. It's how I can trust Draco to bathe me if I'm too tired to stand, and vice versa, and how neither of us cares about our nudity in front of the other. It's how we aren't afraid to share everything with one another – because we both have a deep, abiding understanding of ourselves as humans. We've come to terms with it." She took a long pull of her firewhisky, and Tom was so distracted by the movement of her throat that he forgot to be angry about the knowledge that Mallery had seen her nude in any capacity. "And so yes, it might have been a touch mortifying at first, to realize that my clothes were gone, but it faded quickly into anger, and then indifference." She shrugged, her eyes hard and dark. "Let them look," she said harshly. "Let them see. It doesn't matter. Plus, it's not like the people in this room don't know what a naked girl looks like. And I'm hardly pretty to look at anymore," she continued, gesturing to her scars. "Too beat up, too thin."

Raven did not know what to say to that.

It was, to an extent, the truth. She was a bit too thin, and the scars on her body disrupted the smoothness of her skin in a most obvious way. But for every imperfection, there was a perfection to counter it. Her scars might have been ugly, but they only threw the softness of the unmarked flesh into stark relief, her skin hairless and golden and just a bit too sun-darkened to be called "fair." Her ribs were still visible, and her hips still showed a hint of boniness, but she had filled out over the last month and a half with regular meals, and the round globes of her buttocks and the increased fullness of her thighs went a long way towards giving her a more healthy shape. Though her breasts were small, they were high and perky, proportionate to the rest of her body. And even though she was still too thin, she was not just skin and bones – she had incredible muscle tone. Every part of her body, from her shoulders to her calves, was perfectly sculpted, hardened by years of suffering and hardship. It was far from what was considered "traditional" beauty: women with small waists and large hips and soft limbs that saw very little work. No, Hermione Granger was all sharp angles and lean muscle, her harsh athleticism softened only by the subtle swell of her breasts and the not quite full curves of her hips and bottom. As his brain processed what he was seeing, he felt desire rush heavily through his bloodstream straight to his cock. He gritted his teeth and cast a rapid cooling charm before anyone saw. He resisted the urge to squirm in discomfort.

In the end, the scars only served to draw his eye even more strongly to the perfection of her body. And the more he looked, the more perfect it became. Because as she'd said, she had the kind of confidence that only made her more attractive.

Tom had always been grateful for his good looks, despite where he'd gotten them from. They'd smoothed the way for him many a time before. But he'd always had some measure of respect for the people that drew attention to themselves without even trying; the people that could charm anyone and fake their way through anything with confidence that had little, if anything, to do with physical appearance. It impressed him when he would see half-bloods with no looks, money or blood rights somehow rise to the top, convincing the rest of the world that they were good enough to be there, important enough to have some measure of power. Those people were the ones that Purebloods sneered at behind their backs, but that they still invited over for dinner out of a strange fear that they might miss out on something. Granger was one of those people.

One day, he would have that power. He would have power over all of them. And even though he knew he would never tell, there was still a part of him that wanted to shove his less-than-perfect blood status in their faces.

What a sweet irony that would be.

But alas, it was too dangerous. It might put people's loyalty into question, and even though he hated it, he needed _people._ They were necessary. He needed people to work for him, with him – people that would obey him without question. And bringing his blood status into the light would knock that obedience back, perhaps irreparably.

It was for the best. The fewer who knew about his filthy Muggle father the better. Dumbledore and Granger, namely. And if Granger knew, so, probably, did Mallery.

Still. Dumbledore wouldn't dare tell, because he wouldn't go so far as to purposefully tarnish a student's reputation and ruin their chances for a future. His stupid morals wouldn't allow for that. Later, though, he might become a problem. But Tom would see to it that he could be dealt with accordingly. Once he had secretly accumulated enough followers and enough sway in the Ministry, he would have the resources he needed to get Dumbledore out of the picture.

Mallery and Granger – well, they had no reason, as of yet, to tell anyone. It worried him that they had something to hold over his head and he had nothing to threaten them with in return.

He knew practically nothing about the two mysterious soldiers from the East. Only bits and pieces from the Ministry and from his interaction with them. But somehow when Hermione had assured him that she wouldn't tell, he'd believed her.

It was probably the closest he'd ever come to actually trusting a person. She saw straight through him. From the very beginning, she hadn't fallen for his fake persona. She had not fluttered her eyelashes at him, she had not smiled and simpered and offered to do things for him. She had not fallen for his good boy act.

He thought back to that moment in the courtyard weeks ago.

 _And what_ _ **do**_ _you see when you look at me, Hermione?_

 _Power,_ she'd said. _And darkness. Wrapped up in a frighteningly attractive package._

He needed leverage over her. But for now, he would just have to be patient and trust that she wouldn't say anything. He would just have to be careful to not make her especially angry again, like the night of Slughorn's party. If he managed to keep the peace between them, she had no reason to go blabbing.

Pulling himself from his ruminations, he offered her his cloak once again. "I insist you put _something_ on," he said quietly.

Hermione laughed, but took his cloak nonetheless. "Why? Are you feeling exposed?" she teased. She took a sip of her drink, raising an eyebrow.

His eyes flickered to a chuckling Raven, and he took Hermione's arm with a muttered 'excuse us' and pulled her a few feet away. Taking the initiative, he took the cloak back from her and threw it around her shoulders, ignoring her indignant squawk of protest. As he tied it at her collarbone, he leaned down to speak to her privately.

"I don't like others seeing what is only _mine_ to see."

She shivered, and he brought his hands up to cradle her jaw, running his callused thumb over her chin.

"There you go again with those possessives," she said, clucking her tongue. But her voice was not quite steady, and even though her face was defiant, her eyes were clouded with lust. It was a stimulating combination. "I told you before and I'll tell you again: I belong to no one."

He stepped back as he felt her magic crawl along his skin like something foul. Foul, and yet somehow beautiful. He cocked his head. "You've already expressed your…intentions. Changed your mind so soon?"

"No," she answered tartly, "but even if I had, I'm perfectly within my rights to do so. But I will reveal my skin to whomever I want, whenever I want. If I wanted to go streaking through the halls, I would do it. If I wanted to skinny dip in the Black Lake, I would shed my clothes and dive in." Her nostrils flared. "I will do neither of those things, because in spite of what has happened tonight I generally make it a point to retain some modesty amongst my peers. But my point is, you have no control over who sees me naked." She raised an eyebrow. "And if I decided right here and now that I wanted to fuck, say, Alphard Black, then I would do so. And I would owe you no explanation."

When his expression grew thunderous, she continued. "Let's be clear. We're not dating. Both of us despise the very idea of being in some sort of romantic entanglement. So you don't get to express the sort of jealousy that a boyfriend would if his girlfriend cheated. And despite your position as Head Boy, you are not my superior. I do not take orders from you. I am not subject to your every whim. We've already established that magically, you are more powerful, but that I am far more knowledgeable and have far more experience, so a duel between us might take a month and would prove nothing." She paused, and patted him on the chest. "We're friends. Friends who may or may not sleep together, but friends just the same. Therefore we are equals."

He stared at her, still feeling his heart pound within his ribcage at the thought of her sleeping with Alphard Black. He felt almost feverish with jealous anger; and the fact that it affected him so much made him bristle. She was just a _girl_ , for Merlin's sake.

"There's no such thing as equality, Hermione," he retorted, calming himself and reining his magic in as Black wandered back over to the punch table to get a drink, looking handsome and self-possessed. "You said so yourself just a couple of weeks ago. In Potions."

She shook her head, looking somewhat frustrated. He burned at the implication that he wasn't sharp enough to get her point. "I said that none of us were born with an equal amount of intelligence, attractiveness and ability," she clarified. "Some of us are better at things than others. But that doesn't mean that we are worth more than they are. Our lives hold equal value. Governmental rights should apply to everyone equally, not based on their success or usefulness. It doesn't matter that some people are born with gifts that others don't have," she finished. "On the grand scale of humanity, our lives are all worth the same."

His nostrils flared. "So basically you're saying that even though I'm a man and you're a woman, and even though I am more powerful than you, your life is still worth the same as mine?"

Hermione grinned. "Essentially, yes. Not to you, of course. You don't understand the concept of humility, or equality. Because at the end of the day, you don't know how to care about anyone but yourself." It was said without malice, or judgment. Like she was reading a fact from a textbook.

He stiffened, feeling inexplicably angry at her statement. "And I suppose you would happily sacrifice yourself for anyone?" he said sarcastically, wanting to tear holes in her theory.

She cocked her head. "I would try," she said, her voice and face dead serious. "I'm certainly no saint, and I've killed a lot of people without remorse," she continued. "But if someone were to threaten Druella Rosier or Cygnus Black, I would endeavor to protect them just as avidly as I would my best friend." She shrugged. "Of course, if I had to choose between protecting Rosier or Flynn, I would choose Flynn. Because even though Druella's life matters just as much as Raven's, she matters less to me _personally_. We are not all worth the same in each _other's_ eyes; that's because human beings suffer from something called 'bias.'" She looked up at him. "I'm sure you've heard of it. It's the same reason Professor Slughorn looks upon you so favorably. You matter more to him than others. You're worth more to him than others. But in the big picture, objectively, you're worth the same as any student in this school."

Anger coiled hot and heavy in his stomach. "How very brave of you," he said dangerously, hating her in this moment.

"Not brave," she said, sensing his anger and gentling her voice. For some reason, even as he was completely aware of her _doing_ it, it worked. Her voice…it was somehow soothing.

 _Ugh._

She put her hands on his chest. "Not brave. Just realistic." She shrugged. "I would choose to save Primrose instead of Draco, because Draco is dying anyway, and it's what he would want," she said matter-of-factly, not a tear in sight. "I would choose Druella over myself because I am more prepared for Death. She is still young, not yet out of school, hasn't had a chance to really _live_ yet. In contrast, I have done quite a lot of living, and I will never fit in here. Despite my dislike for her, she has a future – _my_ future will forever be haunted by my past. There is no such thing as a fresh start, for me." Her eyes drifted, filming over with memories. "As I've said before, Death doesn't scare me. And if I got to go down fighting for someone else's life, well – if I'm going to leave a legacy, I want it to be good. Perhaps that's my own vanity talking."

He had nothing to say. In his silence, she cleared her throat. "I would apologize for being harsh, but I'm not sorry," she said softly. "If you want someone to coddle you, you are associating with the wrong person."

"I don't need to be coddled," he hissed, narrowing his eyes.

"If that's true, then you wouldn't be so grievously offended," she scoffed quietly. "I call it like I see it. But sometimes my statements can be taken poorly." She looked down at his shoes, and then back up at his face. "The insults that hurt the most are the ones that hold some amount of truth. Draco used to tease me in school – when he called me stupid, it didn't bother me. I was top of my class. But when he pointed out that my best friends only ever sought me out to help them with their homework, I cried myself to sleep. Eventually, I came to understand that _that_ wasn't true, either. But as a twelve-year-old, it wormed its way into my heart. Perhaps it wasn't true, but I believed it to be true in my mind. It did a lot of damage to my self-esteem."

 _The insults that hurt the most are the ones that hold some amount of truth._

Her assessment of him had been true. He really _didn't_ care about anyone but himself. He knew this. He'd known it for years.

So why was it bothering him _now?_

Perhaps because _she_ had pointed it out. Perhaps because she had once again exposed part of him as easily as breathing. Perhaps because he knew that even though it didn't bother him, it bothered the rest of the world. Perhaps because saying the words out loud had revealed something terrible.

He didn't care about anyone but himself. That was true. But the way she'd phrased it: _you don't know how to care about anyone but yourself._ She made it sound like a failure.

And then he realized why. She had not just said _you_ _ **don't**_ _care about anyone but yourself –_ she had said _you_ _ **don't know how**_ _to care about anyone but yourself._

That was why it was terrible. Because she had placed limits on him. She had pointed out something that he _couldn't_ do. Not that he didn't do, or wouldn't do, but _couldn't do._ She had said it with such utter conviction, so nonchalantly; as if to say _'Hey, it is what it is, there's nothing you can do about it.'_

She'd made it sound like a failure because it _was_ a failure. He didn't care about anyone, and he didn't care about the fact that he didn't care about anyone, but the fact that it was a deficiency of some kind and not a choice he'd made sent his mind reeling. He didn't choose not to care about people; he just wasn't capable of caring.

Self-doubt settled low in his stomach. Rage filled him on account of his own weakness. Once again, Hermione Granger had plucked him from his perch and was dragging him up into a place that was uncomfortable. She let him keep his crown, but she was taking him into the world of the unknown.

"I'll wear your silly little cape," she said, sighing and rolling her eyes dramatically. "But only to appease you. And to keep Thoros from having a small seizure." She narrowed her eyes. "Seriously, it's like he's never seen a naked woman before."

"You aren't just any naked woman, Hermione," he murmured. "You are different. Men like that, even if only temporarily."

She snorted, and turned to stand by his side, her arm brushing his as she assessed the crowd. People were starting to loosen up a bit with the alcohol.

"Draco and I were just talking about this the other day," she said conversationally. "How boys seem so enamored of me because I'm something different; all the morbid curiosity about the scars, and wanting to hear war stories – it's glamorous to them." She smiled bitterly. "They don't think about the fact that I can outperform them in every subject except flying, and how it would destroy their ego. They don't think about the fact that my instincts are so sharp that I could kill them by accident. They don't think about the fact that nothing I say or do will correspond with their expectations." She huffed out a laugh. "I would make a terrible wife."

"You've already been a wife," Tom pointed out, an image of a severed head with matted red hair flashing through his mind.

"That was before." Her voice was quiet, clear, musical.

"Before what?" he answered.

"Before…everything," she said vaguely. "Before I'd killed more than twenty people. Before I was tortured to within an inch of my life. Before I started throwing around Dark Magic like rice at a wedding." She scuffed her heel on the floor. "That girl was ripped to shreds and reconstructed as something else."

Before he could respond, the stone to the common room shifted, and Cygnus Black came stumbling in, breathing hard and red in the cheeks. He had thrown the gown over his shoulder, and Hermione's shoes dangled from his fingers. He looked so far from being a dignified Black that Tom grinned on the inside.

"Black," she said with a smile. She held her arms out and he deposited the incredible dress into her hands, wings and all. "Thank you. You can get dressed and collect your wand from Avery. And don't worry; I've threatened the room into silence. No one else will know of your public humiliation."

At this Tom did laugh out loud. She had a taste for satire that absolutely tickled him. It was…refreshing.

"One more thing though, Cygnus," she said as he started to turn. He turned back looking both sullen and afraid. She waved him to join her away from listening ears – except for Tom. The exception pleased him. Cygnus gulped.

"When next you see or owl your father," she drawled casually, "please give him a message for me." She paused, and Black nodded hastily. "Tell him that the next time one of his children insults me as you did tonight, I will cut off the wand hand of the child in question." Cygnus trembled as she tapped her wand against his cheek. "Wouldn't it be shameful for the prestigious Black family to have a child that was practically a squib?" she said gleefully. Then she tilted her head. "And please give him my best. I do hope we can get together sometime – I find his conversation quite stimulating, even though he _is_ a bigoted prat."

This time she shooed him off, and Tom didn't think he ever saw someone dress more quickly. Then Cygnus scraped up what was left of his pride and disappeared down the stairs and into his dormitory.

He cleared his throat. "That was…"

"Foolish," she finished for him. "Considering his family ties. But it was incredibly satisfying." She shrugged. "I get carried away sometimes. In case you hadn't already noticed, I'm a bit impulsive."

Then she turned, and strode away from him, towards where Violet and Raven stood, muttering about something in low tones. "Would you mind directing me to somewhere I can change?" she asked cheerily.

The girls both nodded, and ushered her through the door to the girls' dormitory. He watched her backside as she strode away, barely covered by his cape. She walked with confidence, ignoring the stares of everyone as she disappeared to the dorms below. He shook his head in amusement and aggravation, and put all troubling thoughts of their conversation out of his head. Instead he turned to Thoros, who still clutched the bottle of Blishen's.

"I might have a little bit of that – "

"Yeah."

* * *

oooo

"Oh Hermione, I'm so sorry," Raven said as she helped Hermione step into her dress. "I had no idea they would be so cruel."

Violet snorted from where she sat in the corner, idly fiddling with the feathers on her dress. "I'm not at all surprised," she drawled, her jaw ticking. "Druella has hated you from day one."

"It's an attention thing," Raven added, turning Hermione around so that she could start on the lacing. "Everyone's attention shifted to you and Mallery, and she got sulky." The Slytherin sighed. "She's always been rotten. She and her cousin both."

Violet hummed. "I still can't believe that this happened, though – I mean, this prank was so much more serious than anything they've done before. It was just hateful. Absolutely hateful."

Hermione sniggered. "Well, after I got over the initial anger and embarrassment, I was rather amused by the whole thing." She grinned. "Cygnus and Druella looked so triumphant. So smug. Priceless."

"It absolutely backfired," Raven said, smirking victoriously. "They ended up looking stupid, and you ended up looking like a bloody queen."

"Should I fear retribution?" she asked, selecting a Pepper Imp from a bowl on Violet's bedside table.

Violet and Raven looked at each other and considered before both shaking their heads. "Selwyn won't so much as look at you again," Violet said. "And I'm pretty sure you scared Druella to death. If Black decided to strike back, it would be subtle. He's got a lot of connections. He could, if he wanted to, make your life hell when you get out of Hogwarts."

Hermione rolled the Pepper Imp against the roof of her mouth, the sharp minty taste refreshing to her sinuses. "I've already been through hell," she said softly. "I spent a lot of time there. I'd probably survive a trip back."

Violet swallowed. Hermione sat down on the edge of her bed when Raven was done with her dress, grabbing her shoes and sliding them on. "I consider you my friends," she began. Raven sat down on her bed, which was next to Violet's. Violet stood and sat next to her housemate. They looked at her expectantly. It was a testimony to their upbringing and their house that Hermione couldn't read any emotion on their faces.

"But I want to be clear on something," she continued, feeling restless. She looked them both in the eye. "When you've seen me get hard with people," she continued, "I'm not faking it. When I threaten people, I _mean_ it. I am not some arrogant windbag that likes to strut around flaunting my skills and abilities." She paused. "I have done so much Dark Magic that it has left a permanent stain on my soul. I have killed one hundred and eighty people."

"One – " Violet swallowed. "One hundred and _eighty?"_

Hermione nodded. "I've done a lot of bad things," she whispered. "Made decisions to abandon my friends for the sake of a successful mission, made decisions to capture and torture enemies, made decisions to kill someone that might have been innocent because I just couldn't take the risk." She sighed. "I consider you my friends," she repeated tiredly. "But I'm not what you might think. I am not an eighteen-year-old girl who diligently does her schoolwork and endeavors to unite people from different houses. I am not a girl who likes to feed the giant squid and walk amongst thestrals. I am not a girl who giggles and gossips and gets ready for balls with her friends. I am not a girl who will graduate with smiles, ready to take on the world." She swallowed. "I am a murderer and a thief. I have done despicable things to save my loved ones and myself. I am not from here. I do not make idle threats. I will not graduate and get some menial job at the Ministry pushing papers. I will not _settle –_ I never have, and I'm not going to start now. I use violence, manipulation and any other means to achieve my goals." She cleared her throat, and absently scratched at the scar on her arm. "I will never hurt a child, or an innocent. I will always try to do right by the people I love. I am fair to those that are fair to me. But being friends with me is flirting with danger. You aren't in danger _from_ me, per say, but being attached to me in any way means that you automatically become something of a target. The world that I live in is very dangerous."

"But…" Violet frowned. "Haven't you moved away from all that?" she said quietly. "I mean, you're in Britain now. You can start a new life."

Hermione smiled at her. "Maybe," she said uncertainly. "I'd like to think so. But the past is heavy, and doesn't let go easily. It floods your mind with memory." She ran a piece of tulle through her fingers. "Besides, I've already made enemies here. Or, rather, 'frenemies'; people who are polite to my face but scheme against me behind closed doors. Do you imagine that my radical opinions are popular among the powerful?" she scoffed. "These men are happy with the order of things. They'll want to do anything to keep it that way. If I am deemed too much of a nuisance, they will try to kill me."

Raven's mouth tightened. "You have sanctuary with my mother and I," she said haughtily. "She wants to meet you." She sniffed disdainfully. "Fuck everybody else. And fuck your past, Hermione," she said, glaring from her bed. "It can go die in a hole somewhere. You've become important to me. I'm not going to let that go just because you might accidentally murder me in my sleep. Life is short, right?"

Hermione smiled at her. "Very short. I won't likely murder you. And I will try to keep you safe."

Violet shifted, tucking her hands underneath her thighs. "I hear you on the danger part," she said slowly, her face impressively impassive. "And I respect that you've been fighting in a war. War is complicated." She swallowed. "I live within the group of powerful people you described who might want to be rid of you. So…what do I do?"

Hermione cocked her head, looking into green eyes that were just a bit greyer than Harry's. "That's for you to decide," she said kindly. "If you follow me down the path I've laid out, they will either shun you, or use you to get close to me. You would have people trying to tear you down everywhere you looked. If you decide to call it a day and disassociate from me altogether, you will undoubtedly be safer. You will remain in high Pureblood society, marry someone rich, and stay at home with the children you would be expected to bear." She shrugged. "Just because _I_ hate the thought of it doesn't make it a bad life," she reassured her. "You could be happy, married with children and having tea with your friends every Sunday afternoon to discuss matters of utter frivolity," she said, flourishing her hand dramatically. It drew a smile from them both. "It would slowly kill _me_ , but I can see the appeal. It would be peaceful, quiet." She paused. "Assuming you can choose your own spouse. I know Pureblood marriages are usually arranged. If you were matched with someone like Ignatius Prewett, or Magnus Macdonald, or even Thoros Nott, chances are you would be treated fairly. Perhaps not equally, but fairly. But if your parents owled you tomorrow with the news that they've arranged your betrothal to Hadrian Flint or Antonin Dolohov?"

Violet clapped a hand to her mouth, looking horrified. Hermione grimaced. "I would rather die, personally."

Raven looked concerned. "My father might be a bastard, but my mother would never let him force me into a bad marriage."

"Lucky you," Violet said, her voice edgy and bitter. "My parents wouldn't think twice about signing my life away if it was advantageous for them." When she looked up at Hermione, her eyes were full of anger and fire. "What do you have in mind?" she asked sharply.

Hermione smiled. "Draco and I have been talking. We both have ideas. He is familiar with the intricacies of Pureblood culture in a way I never will be, because he's lived it," she admitted. "We've talked at length about strategies for a Ministry takeover."

"A Ministry takeover?!" Violet hissed. "Are you mad? You and what army?"

Hermione held her hand up. "Not a hostile takeover," she clarified. "There will be no wands blazing. No storming of the building itself." She leaned forward. "Think more insidiously. Don't think like a Gryffindor, think like a Slytherin." She tapped her head and winked. "We gain influence through family ties and manipulation. And bribery," she added. "Don't go blabbing, but Draco and I have quite a lot of money at our disposal," she said.

Raven's eyebrows shot up. "How _much_ money are we talking about, here?"

She smiled. "More than either of you have ever seen in your lifetime, Pureblood or not," she said. "About 5.1 million galleons," she threw out, "and some old heirlooms that are considered priceless." She looked at Raven. "About twenty-five million dollars in American dollars, to clarify. And we have access to more, potentially," thinking of Draco and the blood that ran through his veins. They could access the Malfoy vaults as well as Malfoy Manor, if needed.

That gave her an idea: a blood bond. Old magic, something she'd only read about. If she made a bond with Draco, she would technically be considered a Malfoy. She would have his blood in her system.

If it _worked,_ that could be extremely advantageous.

"I know how to do the math," Raven said, rolling her eyes sulkily. "I've lived here for a long time. I know how to convert galleons to dollars." She sniffed. "That is a lot of money."

"That is a _ton_ of money," Violet breathed. "You said the potential for more. How much more?"

Hermione shrugged. She new how much the Malfoys were worth in _her_ time, but who knew what it might be here. Still, they were old money, and the richest Pureblood family in Britain. "Erm – a billion galleons? Maybe? Something like that."

Violet held her wrist to her forehead and fell backwards onto the bed in imitation of a faint. "Merlin, Granger, that is ridiculous!" She sat back up. "Only the Malfoy's have that much money! _If_ they have that much."

Hermione shrugged again. "Draco and I are connected back home. We have our secrets." She looked back up at them. "I'm telling you this in confidence. Not that it matters if people know how much money we have – I just don't want it to change the way people act around me."

They both gave short nods. She cleared her throat and continued. "We've already made some connections here – powerful connections. And if you and others decide to get in on this, especially fellow Purebloods or those with influential families, we would have something great to work with. And never spurn someone's friendship just because they annoy you, or you think they're below you," she added. "You never know who might be sitting on top of something extraordinary. Even the poor, and even muggleborns, have things of value. Whether it's connections in the Muggle government, or an old, forgotten family heirloom, or a rare book, or a gift for languages or a photographic memory – these things count. The details are important."

"No offense Hermione, and I know you're a half-blood, but…what could muggleborns possibly offer? And why are Muggles important?" Violet asked, looking confused and a bit sheepish.

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. With people like Tom and his Knights, a more aggressive reaction was appropriate. With someone like Violet Greengrass, a bit more tolerance was called for. She had to be gentle. And the tone of voice suggested that the blonde was more ignorant than hateful. Hermione could work with that.

"Do you know what a billion people looks like?" she asked Violet. The blonde shook her head, frowning. "Me neither. Now imagine _several_ billion people. That is how many Muggles there are." She tilted her head. "They outnumber us approximately six hundred to one. That number will become far greater as people populate faster. They are extremely relevant to everything we do. And they have a lot to offer. Brilliant Muggles around the world have made huge discoveries. The Muggle world is a very complex place. It's not something to be afraid of, I think – but respected." She gestured to Greengrass. "You were probably brought up on the belief that all Muggles are dirty, poor, and dangerous. There are indeed Muggles who are dirty, ones who are poor, and ones who are dangerous. Just as there are in the wizarding world. But most of the western world is civilized and clean. People are becoming more and more educated, and they continue to make improvements to their quality of life. They are not stupid, mindless criminals who eat wizarding children for breakfast." She raised her eyebrow. Violet looked embarrassed.

Hermione shifted on the bed. "I won't get into this discussion tonight," she said wearily. "Our morning classes have been cancelled due to the ball, but we still have them in the afternoon." She yawned. "I just wanted to be straight with you. I don't want you getting involved in my plans without knowing who you'll be working with and how it might affect your lives."

Violet let out a long sigh, looking a bit deflated. "You had me on the phrase 'arranged marriage,' Granger," she said. "If you can help me – and others – get out of that mold, then I'm all for it."

Raven looked bored. "I never had any delusions about your character, Hermione," she said with a roll of her eyes. "And I haven't abandoned you yet, have I?"

Hermione grinned and stood, and the others did the same. As they did so, the door opened.

Primrose took a step in, saw them, and then stammered out an apology that would have amused Hermione if it weren't so pathetic.

"Selwyn," she interrupted smoothly. The girl went silent instantly. "Would you mind if I spoke to you for a moment before I leave?"

The pale girl visibly trembled. Raven shot Hermione a wink, and she and Violet brushed past their housemate and closed the door behind them. Primrose looked like she was about to cry. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"For God's sake, Primrose, sit down before you fall down," she said, sitting back down on Violet's bed. "I merely want to talk to you. I'm not going to hurt you."

The Slytherin relaxed slightly, and carefully perched on the edge of the chair in the corner. She looked tense.

"I know what happened earlier wasn't your idea," she began. Primrose looked up sharply, disbelief in her eyes. "I won't say I'm not displeased with you, but I know Rosier and Black were the people responsible. So relax. It's forgiven."

Selwyn burst into tears, slumping into the chair. "I-I'm so sorry, I knew it was a bad idea, a-and I tried to tell them, but – "

"Hush," Hermione said quietly. Selwyn's mouth snapped shut, but her chin trembled. "I understand that, Selwyn. And your apology is excepted."

"I thought you were going to kill me," the other girl whispered hoarsely.

Hermione shook her head. "I would never. You looked dreadful the entire time. I saw the guilt eating at you." She sighed. "Even with Rosier and Black – listen, it was a bad prank. Mean and uncalled for. But even so, no one was hurt. In the end, it was harmless. Cygnus and Druella, like you, are just young students. It's not like you all were trying to kill me. I got my revenge with Black's humiliation – and rest assured I'll be a lot more wary from now on – but it's over with, and I'm dropping it."

Primrose nodded jerkily. "That's – that's really nice of you," she said quietly. "Thank you."

Hermione shrugged, and stood. Primrose hopped to her feet, still looking nervous. Hermione came to stand in front of her, and coaxed the girl to meet her eyes with a gentle, non-threatening smile. "There are two things I would ask of you."

Selwyn nodded, looking apprehensive.

"First," she said, handing Primrose Tom's cloak, "give this back to Tom, for me, please."

She nodded.

"Second: grow a backbone," she said firmly. Selwyn's face slackened in shock. "You are worth so much more than the hated sidekick of an even more hated monster. She is not your master. You are not a slave." She put her hands on Primrose's upper arms. "You come from a proud family. You are wealthy, beautiful, and you have endless political connections. Your marks in school aren't bad – they could be better. Because those not-so-bad marks show me that this," she continued, tapping the side of the girl's head with her finger, "is a lot more active and a lot smarter than people give you credit for." It was like talking to Pansy. Primrose had all the same problems her granddaughter would one day have. "So get yourself out from under her thumb," she said passionately. "I know you admire Druella – she's smart, pretty, gifted, and popular – but she's also spiteful and petty and pathetic."

She released Primrose, and tucked a loose black strand of hair behind her ear. "Be better," she said as she opened the door. "I believe that you can."

Raven was waiting in the hall. Hermione grinned at her. "Say – is there any way to get out of the Slytherin dorms that _doesn't_ involve passing back through that crowd of people?" she asked hopefully.

Raven smirked. "I can't let you in on Slytherin's secrets, Hermione," she said, acting scandalized.

Hermione pointed to herself. "I'm an honorary Slytherin, remember?" she said with a smile.

Raven shrugged, and grabbed her wrist. "Good enough for me."

* * *

oooo

 _A pink wand lies deserted behind a column._

 _One, two, three droplets of blood on the floor. Four, five, six on the wall._

 _The grass is wet._

 _A pair of wise black eyes surrounded by fire._

 _A pink wand lies deserted behind a column._

Heaving, Conan sat upright, wiping a sweaty hand across his brow. He blinked.

A dream. It was just a dream.

He looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Sighing, he flopped back down onto his back and closed his eyes.

 _Fluttering brown eyes._

 _Orange tulle catches on a tree limb._

 _Hair the color of straw._

 _A pink wand lies deserted behind a column._

 _A pink wand lies deserted behind a column._

 _A pink wand lies deserted –_

Conan fell out of his four-poster, landing heavily on the floor. Immediately he sprung to his feet, his ears ringing and his eyes blurred with black spots. He shook his head. Cursing, he pulled on a shirt and added a coat, not bothering to change out of his pajama pants. He stepped into his slippers.

He wouldn't be gone long. He just needed to check on something.

He took the stairs two at a time, squinting into the brighter light of the common room. A few people lingered, but the punch bowl was empty. It was mostly just Tom and the Knights of Walpurgis, minus Ambrose, who had gone to bed early like Conan had.

And Rosier was absent.

His ears were still ringing, but Conan could make out Dolohov's voice.

"Where are _you_ going?" the swarthy boy asked, curious.

Conan shook his head. "I…I'm going to check on something."

"Check on something?" Tom said, raising his eyebrows and folding his hands. Sitting in his chair by the fire, he looked every bit the evil mastermind Conan knew him to be.

Conan nodded, when he got to the charmed doorway, it parted for him. Pausing at the threshold, he looked back. "Where is Rosier?"

Tom's eyes narrowed.

Thoros snorted. "Probably passed out on top of some girl in a broom closet." Edmond sneered in disgust.

For some reason, something that felt a lot like dread burgeoned in his stomach, hot and acidic and edging on panic.

"Don't get caught," Tom said lazily, still looking mildly suspicious. Conan nodded, and then flew out the door and into the hall.

He stopped to calm himself, putting a hand on the stone wall of the hallway to cool down. "Stupid," he said to himself. "This is stupid."

And yet he did not turn around. Instead he kept going, his wand in his hand as he crept up the stairs and onto the first floor. He passed by the Great Hall, where there were still a few elves cleaning up the mess from the ball. He passed the front doors, continuing on towards the Transfiguration wing. Soon he was standing at the foot of the Grand Staircase, its flights of steps moving sleepily about in the dark.

Something caught his eye. A column.

He breathed in heavily through his nose as fear gripped him. With trepidation, he rounded the column.

 _A pink wand lies deserted behind a column._

The image had been so clear in his dream. And now he was looking down at the same image, down to the last drop of blood.

"Oh," he breathed out, staring down at the unusual wand. "Oh, shit."

Again, fire and that pair of unfamiliar black eyes flashed through his mind, dark and penetrating and somehow human but also _not_.

He reached down and picked up the wand. It shocked him weakly, but not enough to hurt. Horror flooded the empty rooms of his brain where he imagined feelings were traditionally kept. It filled up the space of his brain, and all he could think was _Hermione Hermione Hermione –_

In hindsight, he should have gone to Mallery. In hindsight, he should have pounded on Dumbledore's door or alerted his Head of House.

He did none of these things. Because there was only one person he really trusted to solve problems, to make things right. It was instinct, habit. Tom would know what to do.

 _Hermione Hermione Hermione._

* * *

oooo

Tom narrowed his eyes as Dolohov shrugged. "Scars give people character," the Russian boy said, leaning back against the mantle and eating an apple. "There are always stories behind them. I find her…interesting. I think I would like to see her in action."

Tom looked to Thoros as the boy choked on his whisky. "No, you really, really don't." His eyes looked haunted. "Just…" he swallowed, and his face smoothed back into its usual I-don't-give-a-fuck expression. "You don't."

Antonin smiled. "If you say so." Tom thought he heard him mutter something that sounded a lot like "pussy," and saw Thoros stiffen.

Tom jumped in his chair as the entrance to the common room parted like a wound reopened. Avery looked horrified. Tom stood, apprehension coiling around his lungs. Conan Avery was many things, but emotional was not one of them.

Before Tom could speak, Conan held something up for him to see. He recognized it immediately. Not even thinking, he snatched it from his Knight's hand, jerking when it shocked him hard enough to make his teeth ache. He would have been angry, if he hadn't been so goddamn _worried._

"Where did you find this?" he asked slowly, his grip tightening around the familiar wand. A _powerful_ wand. He could feel it humming against his palm.

"Behind a column on the first floor, near the stairs," Avery said, his breath coming in harsh pants. Tom had noticed how in shape Avery had gotten these days, running with Granger nearly every morning. There was a bit more muscle there than there'd been before.

His brows drew down in consternation.

"There was blood," Conan said, his voice betraying the edge of his panic. "Just a few drops." He swallowed. "I think it was Rosier."

Tom looked at him sharply, feeling skeptical even as the statement rang true in his heart. She had disappeared earlier, somehow leaving the Slytherin commons without anyone seeing – he suspected Flynn and/or Greengrass was to blame. Selwyn had returned his cloak with a whispered "sorry," leaving Tom fuming at having been hoodwinked.

And now she was gone. Rosier had somehow gotten to her.

Edmond spoke. "With what she did to him…I would never have expected him to make another move on her. Look what happened to him last time." He shook his head. "I figured between fear and revenge, fear would win."

"Obviously not," Tom hissed, as something cold and evil wrapped around his spine and slithered into his bones. "Wake Ambrose, and grab your cloaks," he ordered with a snarl. "We're going witch hunting."

oooo

* * *

 **Sorry (not sorry). I hear the gnashing of teeth somewhere, and someone squeezing a stress ball. It'll be okay. I promise.**

 **Snippet from the next chapter:**

" _Sorry," she said hastily. "I've a head wound, you see," she explained, wincing. "I'm not quite myself. I tend to get mouthy when I'm injured."_

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	29. Chapter 29

**Guys – I have over a thousand reviews! I'm so psyched! Thank you all so much. I couldn't do any of this without your support, constructive criticism, and kind words.**

 **I got some of the best reviews yet for this chapter – there was so much emotion! People were cussing me out for leaving them hanging like that. I especially enjoyed JustRainy's review – it made me laugh out loud. ASunInWinter made me chuckle as well. All of you are awesome, and I was so excited to have that many people respond so strongly!**

 **Also, for those of you that didn't get the memo at the beginning of chapter 27, I did go back and change chapter 26. So go back and reread the end of that chapter so that you aren't confused as to why things suddenly don't seem to fit with what you remember.**

 **To SabersDragon: I used to have an update schedule – roughly every two weeks, usually on a Tuesday – but then it was all shot to hell when I got promoted and took on a lot more responsibility at work. So it's been pretty sporadic since the new year started. I've just got over a bad case of writer's block, so hopefully things will be more consistent, but I don't want to make promises and disappoint my readers. All I** _ **can**_ **promise is that I won't abandon the story.**

 **In her (or his, idk) review, Relent1ess was speculating as to Conan's dream/vision. And she/he mentioned that she/he thought it was either Voldemort that had come through the rip in space-time or the vampires that had arranged for Hermione to be snatched, because of the mention of the "unfamiliar black eyes, dark and penetrating and somehow human but also not." But if you think about it, Voldemort has red eyes. And my description of the vampires in chapter 20 was that their eyes were dark chocolate. So who do we know with black eyes that might be able to penetrate the mind of Conan Avery? Who has been in Conan's mind before besides Tom? The answer is frighteningly simple if you just look at the information provided to you. Believe it or not, a lot of my plot twists are super predictable – people always come up with these elaborate conjectures, and the truth is that I'm just not smart enough to make it super complicated. My new drama,** _ **The Zone Where Black and White Clash,**_ **will be very mysterious and full of all sorts of twists and turns, and the ending is going to be totally unexpected; I'm actually looking forward to it. But that sort of plot takes a lot more time and thought and effort, and so with** _ **She Rises**_ **things will be a bit more straightforward.**

 **These next two chapters get kind of dark, y'all. There is a fine line between the Hermione that likes to scare people and play games and the Hermione that can kill someone in cold blood. And there is another fine line between the Hermione that can kill someone in cold blood because it's necessary and the Hermione that can kill someone in cold blood because she** _ **wants**_ **to. Fine lines all around.**

 **Anyway, be prepared for some character death. You all knew this was coming. Don't act surprised.**

 **Also, someone asked me about my use of the term sorrel to describe color – I can't remember if I was referring to Hermione's hair or eyes – but just to clarify, sorrel refers to a chestnut color. It is most commonly used in reference to horses, and seeing as I grew up in the equine world I didn't even think about it. Sorrel is actually a plant – an herb, I think, though I was too lazy to look any of this up and I'm just going off of my memory – and I think its roots are noticeably chestnut, hence the use of the word sorrel as a synonym for brown. So there you go. You learned something new today (though I would encourage you to look it up before taking my word for it).**

 **Trivia question of the day: who can tell me what 'coquelicot' means without looking it up? Any guesses? It's used in this chapter – see if you can figure it out. Fifty points to the house of the reader who comes closest to guessing right. No cheating! That's no fun.**

* * *

oooo

Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it. –Terry Pratchett

Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire, called conscience. –George Washington

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. Yet his shadow still looms. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives; who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? – Friedrich Nietzsche

'Eye for an eye.'  
'Tooth for a tooth'  
'Blood for blood'  
We've all gotta die

And that's why they call me  
Bad company  
I won't deny  
Bad company  
Till the day I die  
-"Bad Company" by Five Finger Death Punch

* * *

oooo

The first thing she noticed when she regained consciousness was that it was _cold._

The second thing was that she was lying face down on the ground, her cheek pressed to the dirt.

The third was that her head hurt like a _bitch._

And the fourth was that she was bound, wandless, and staring at a pair of boots that belonged to Gavin Rosier.

She coughed. "I should have known," she said tiredly. "I should have known that you would do something stupid like this."

"Shut up, Granger," he snarled, kicking her harshly in the side. She jolted. She felt one of her ribs, which had been broken and healed and broken and healed, fracture for a third time. She resisted the urge to curse.

She looked up at him, blinking tears away. Beneath his cloak he was dressed as an Egyptian pharaoh, and with his Scandinavian coloring he looked absolutely ridiculous. "Didn't anyone advise you against dressing up as someone from an entirely different _race?"_ she asked scathingly. "You look like a little boy playing dress up before his mother tells him that 'no, darling, we aren't actually Egyptian – '"

He kicked her again, and she laughed into the dirt. She wriggled her fingers, which were starting to go numb with how tightly they were bound behind her back. Warm blood dripped down her temple towards her eye, and she shifted as best she could so that it didn't blind her.

"I can't believe you hit me in the head like a bloody barbarian," she said groggily, struggling to get ahold of her magic. It was elusive, just out of reach, slipping away on glassy tendrils every time she grasped for it. Her head swam, her thoughts disjointed as she fought for clarity. "You're a wizard, aren't you?" she goaded. "Not some wandless Muggle."

He sneered at her, staring down with cruel blue eyes. "I figured better safe than sorry. Thought a stone to the head might do the trick, especially since I was advised that your wand had something of a mind of its own. And then after you threw my _Imperius_ off last time – "

"Oh yes," she said mildly, smiling fondly. "That was a lovely night, wasn't it?"

He kicked her again, and this time she couldn't quite help the tears that jumped into her eyes. A few of them escaped onto her face. Still, she smiled. "Advised by whom?"

"What?" Rosier asked stupidly.

"Who advised you about my wand?" she clarified, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Didn't see his face," he said nonchalantly, shrugging his massive shoulders. "Just a scar on his hand, and handwriting on a letter. Not sure who it was. But he offered me a lot of money, and a life away from here and Tom _fucking_ Riddle."

"Ooh," she teased with a grin. "Better not let him hear you talking like that. He'd skin you alive."

"After tonight, I'm never coming back to this place, Granger," he said with a smile. "Whoever it is that hired me will kill you, and I'll be rewarded handsomely, with status and power. Riddle won't be able to touch me," he finished smugly.

She frowned, and then turned her head further so she could truly meet his eyes. "Surely," she said quietly, " _surely_ you aren't stupid enough to believe that." His nostrils flared. She huffed out a sardonic laugh. "If Tom _fucking_ Riddle wants to find you, Rosier, he _will,"_ she said. "Even I know that, and I've known him a lot less time than you. Even if it takes him a hundred years, he'll hunt you down and find you." She chuckled. "Did you really think you could escape?" she asked meanly. "From _him?"_

Before he could speak, she continued. "Besides, what kind of a _moron_ comes into the Forbidden Forest on Halloween on a _full moon?"_ she said contemptuously. Her sentence was punctuated by the howling of a lone wolf in the distance. Rosier looked up sharply. She laughed. "Oh, didn't you realize?" she snarked.

"Shut up," he said lowly. "Just shut up."

She laughed gleefully, her head spinning so much that she felt half-mad. Fawkes stirred to life within her, just as groggy as she. He seethed, roiling around like a ball of lava inside her chest, trying to stabilize so that he could help her.

Her, him, Hermione, Fawkes, _them –_ they were nearly one and the same, now. It was becoming hard to distinguish his spirit from hers anymore.

"It would be worth dying, I think," she coughed, "just to see the look on your face as a werewolf rips your throat out."

His eyes widened in consternation. She shook her head minutely. "Don't worry," she assured him. "If I were you, I would be more concerned about centaurs," she said honestly. "They're mighty territorial, you see. Don't take kindly to humans invading their space. Or," she continued, relishing in the way his eyes darted this way and that through the trees, "I would be worried that either Draco or Tom would find out and somehow track you down and tear you apart." She hummed playfully. "I wonder who would hurt you more?" she said idly. "I know how dark and sadistic Tom is, especially when it comes to things he think are _his_ – so normally I would go with him. But I don't know. Mallery loves me more than anything in the whole world, and I have seen him lose it a few times. I once saw him kill a man by just punching him in the face again and again and again. And even after he was dead Draco just kept punching him, until his head was just kind of this pulpy mess – "

Hermione's voice died as he hit her with a silencing charm. She laughed soundlessly, cracking her neck as she felt some of her magic return to her and felt some of her mental faculties come back online. Fawkes lent her some of his strength. Finding the root of the silencing charm within her mind, she tugged on it, and it unraveled.

"You know," she began again, wriggling a little and trying to work some feeling back into her fingers, "you really should have thought this through more." When he looked puzzled, she cleared her throat. "My mind is very difficult to exert any sort of control over, Gavin," she said in explanation. "And, at its core, a silencing spell is simply a restraint on the brain. Because speech originates in the brain," she explained, slipping into her boring professor mode. If she could just distract him long enough to grasp ahold of her magic and dissolve the magical rope that wrapped around her wrists and bound her to the tree…

"Unless," she continued conversationally, enjoying the frustration and confusion on his face, "you were to discover a silencing charm that worked directly on the windpipe or the tongue. A version of the langlock spell, perhaps…"

He was beginning to sweat. She grinned internally. The wind blew around them, whistling through the trees in an eerie way that would have scared a much younger Hermione. Rosier shifted, holding his wand up, his eyes flickering from left to right.

"Do you think that acromantula is still hiding in the forest?" she said next. "You know, the one that that boy…what was his name – oh, Hagrid – the one that Hagrid released?" The blond stared at her with wide eyes. "If you gave me my wand," she purred darkly, "I could help us both get out of the forest alive. And then I would return to the castle, and give you a free pass, and you could run as fast and far as your heart desires – "

He sneered at her again, but his expression was far less confident. "I don't have your wand, you stupid girl," he hissed. "I left it behind. I wasn't going to risk touching that thing."

She stiffened, her heart sinking at the news. "So," she said quietly, "you're telling me that you brought us both out here, into the Forbidden Forest, at night, on Halloween, during a full moon, beyond the Hogwarts wards, and you left _my wand_ in the castle – _fuck_ , Rosier, are you bloody stupid?" she hissed. She rolled her eyes. "Don't answer that. Of course you are. Are you sure this person you're working for isn't trying to get rid of us _both?"_

His lips twitched down at the corners. "No, Granger, he was very clear – "

"Was he?" she asked, feeling hysteria bubble in her chest. Fawkes stirred, feeling restless.

"Just _shut up,_ Granger, I'm sick of hearing you talk – "

Suddenly two figures moved towards them through the trees. Hermione stared as Gavin pointed his wand at them; gripping it so tight his knuckles went white. The strangers both raised their hands, and one of them lowered his hood.

"Put it down, Mister Rosier," he said in a heavily accented voice. Hermione squinted up at him from her uncomfortable position on the ground. "No need for violence."

"I know you," Hermione murmured, narrowing her eyes on his scarred face. "I saw a glimpse of you in Diagon Alley a few weeks ago – "

"You speak of the day you killed my partner," he said with a sneer. "I watched him die."

"Yes," she said with a fond smile. "He was being rather nosy, you see – "

Rosier kicked her again, and she laughed, feeling lucky that her rib hadn't punctured her lung by now. "Hush," he said harshly. He looked up at the Russian man. "I don't care who killed who, or who you are," he said quickly. "I did what you asked. Now you have to deliver. I'm ready to get out of here.

"Who killed _whom,"_ she muttered under her breath. "Bloody idiot, did no one teach you proper English?" She huffed.

Neither of them heard her. Grindelwald's spy nodded. "You have. And Herr Grindelwald delivers on his promises," he assured smoothly.

"Grindelwald?" Rosier said incredulously. _"That's_ who I've been working for?"

"Mostly," the Russian said with a cryptic smile. "Yes. Now, I'm going to stun the girl –"

His sentence was cut short just as hoof beats sounded through the trees, and an arrow went clean through the man's chest, tearing a hole and ending up in the trunk of the tree in front of which Hermione lay, landing just above where the magical rope that bound her circled it. Another arrow caught Rosier through the hand, pinning him to the tree he was leaning against. He howled, and Hermione was able to turn over onto her side just in time to avoid a pair of feathered hooves to the face. She grunted as she felt her broken rib shift painfully, and then watched on, heart racing, as the other hooded man got his head bashed in by the same pair of front hooves.

It was a lone centaur, and Hermione recognized him instantly. She sucked in a sharp breath as a young Magorian turned on her, staring down at her with sharp amber eyes. He lifted his bow and aimed. She closed her eyes.

When she heard the twang of the bow, she felt heat on her face as Fawkes surged weakly within her. Her eyes shot open just as the arrow caught flame, burning to ash only centimeters away from her nose. Fawkes did the mental equivalent of collapsing back into a chair, exhausted as he exerted his power while still trying to gain equilibrium.

Magorian reared back, bumping into Rosier, who whimpered in misery, his blue eyes glazed in pain and darting between the centaur, Hermione, and his wand, which lay on the ground where he'd dropped it, far out of his reach.

"Witch!" Magorian accused harshly, once again aiming his bow at her.

Hermione frowned, feeling weary. "Yes, I am a witch," she said sardonically. "This isn't news to me."

He peered at her curiously, his expression angry. "You have no wand."

"Not at the moment, no," she said through clenched teeth, struggling to rein in her sarcasm for the sake of not offending a centaur that was notoriously volatile. "As you can see, I'm not exactly in a very good position here."

"How did you burn my arrow?" he asked, ignoring her attempt to be smart.

"With fire," she responded with a sneer. "Are you finished asking stupid questions?"

He reared at her cheek, and again she twisted to avoid his trampling hooves, flopping onto her back and crying out in pain as she heard two audible _snaps:_ one from her rib, and one from Rosier's wand, which now lay in three pieces beneath the centaur's feet _._ _Stupid, Hermione,_ she thought to herself. _Maybe you could try_ _ **not**_ _offending the one centaur who you know hates humans the most._

"Sorry," she said hastily. "I've a head wound, you see," she explained, wincing. "I'm not quite myself. I tend to get mouthy when I'm injured."

"Are you a foal?" he asked harshly, nostrils flaring as he glared at her.

She shook her head. "Alas, no," she answered. "If we're being honest. I'm a bit past foal age. But you can let me live anyway, if you like," she croaked, turning back onto her side to ease the pressure on her bound wrists. She winced.

He looked down for a moment, curious. Then he glanced up sharply, and she followed his gaze to the right, past where Rosier stood deliriously, still pinned to the tree by an arrow nearly as thick as his palm. Her eyes alighted on something very curious.

"Fireflower," she murmured, watching as a small group of the rare blooms opened at the base of a tree, partially sheltered by a scattering of shrubs and massive roots. They were tiny, no bigger than her thumbnails, opening up like tiny crocus flowers, glowing bright yellow-orange and casting their light onto the trees around them, chasing away shadow and gloom as effectively as if the sun had risen right there from the ground. "But…fireflowers only open in the spring."

Magorian made a noise in his throat, somewhere between a human grunt and a horse-like whinny. His nostrils flared, and his pointed ears twitched. The muscles of his sleek equine body shuddered, rippling underneath the gleaming chestnut coat that shone warmly in the light of the blooms. His tawny eyes flickered down to her prone form again, scrutinizing her from beneath bushy black eyebrows.

" _Watch for the one for whom the fireflower opens,'"_ he murmured lowly. His expression was grave. _"'Watch for the one who has the heart of the lion, who is never alone, who walks with Death and flies with Fire. Watch for the one who is two.'"_

Hermione froze as he reached down and put his hands underneath her arms, lifting her to bend at the waist and sit against the tree at her back. He was not gentle about it. She whined in pain and gritted her teeth.

"What did you mean – "

"Get out of the forest," he said seriously, frowning at her. "Evil things lurk here under the full moon. I cannot release your bonds – I do not have wizards' magic." His ears twitched, and he looked up at the sky, the full moon only partially visible through the autumn foliage. "Help is on the way, I think," he said cryptically. He snorted, and backed up from her. Then he turned, and pointed his bow at Rosier's heart.

"Wait!" Hermione said sharply, holding up her hand. The centaur looked back on her. "Please," she said, swallowing hard. "Leave him." She put it into terms he would understand. "He may have trespassed on herd land, but his first offense was against me," she said gently. She met his brilliant amber eyes. "With your permission, I would be the one to execute him."

He snorted, and then lowered his bow and bent his head in acquiescence. "As you wish."

Then he was gone.

"Granger," Rosier moaned from against the tree. "Do something."

She barked out a laugh, and leaned her head back against the tree, feeling dizzy and confused. "I have no wand, Rosier," she drawled darkly. "You made sure of that."

"But…" He swallowed. "But you know wandless magic, right?" he asked shakily. He jerked as another howl echoed in the distance – werewolf or regular wolf, it didn't matter – it was likely too far away to be of any immediate threat to them.

Still, they were past the wards of the school. That meant they were probably a mile deep into the forest. Anything could live out here.

She closed her eyes impatiently. "Yes, Rosier. I do. But you slammed a rock into my head," she needlessly pointed out. "I might still be able to set your robes on fire from over here and laugh as you burn to death," she said nastily, hatred and anger bubbling forth from her chest, "but unfortunately I can't seem to be able to get rid of this pesky rope you've tied me up with." She gestured with her head to the tree at her back, where a shimmering green rope of magic flowed down from the trunk and attached to her bound wrists. There was only about five feet of slack.

Not quite enough for her to be able to make it over to Rosier to punch him in his stupid face.

"But that Patronus thing," he suggested, sweat pouring down his forehead despite the autumn chill. "You can cast one of those."

"Yes," she said slowly, opening her eyes and emulating Snape as best she could. "With a _wand."_ She paused, and snorted. "A Patronus is one of the most advanced types of magicks in the world. I've done it so many times that you'd think it would be easy, but it still takes a lot of skill and a lot of good memory to fuel it. And even if I felt at the top of my game right now – which I _don't,_ because you _hit me in the goddamn head –_ I still probably couldn't do it wandless." She looked up to the sky, watching as a cloud obscured the moon for a moment before it drifted away. "It would be like trying to cast the killing curse without a wand," she murmured. "Harder than that, even. Light magic is more difficult than Dark magic." She swallowed. "At least, for me."

"So…"

"So we're stuck, Gavin," she responded sharply. "We're stuck until someone – or _something –_ finds us."

He gulped. "That centaur – he – he said that help was on the way. What did he mean?"

"I don't know," she said tiredly. "Centaurs can be complicated creatures. They often speak in ways we can't interpret. I imagine he heard something. Humans, I'm hoping."

"So we wait?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes. We wait. If and when my mind clears up, I might be able to figure something out. But until that, we're screwed."

He exhaled shakily. "If we get away," he ventured slowly, his voice unsteady, "what will you do to me?"

She blinked at him. "Perhaps, Rosier," she said acidly. "You should have thought about the potential consequences _before_ you tried to kidnap me."

"You…you said you were going to kill me."

"I did say that, yes," she said sleepily, shivering with the cold; she only wore her costume – the shoes, dress, stockings and wings the only things protecting her from the chilly night air. "But, you know, women are fickle," she said snarkily. "I might change my mind." She grinned. "Now shut up. I'm trying to think."

He was quiet for a moment or two, and then broke the silence again.

"My hand hurts."

She sighed. "Yes, Gavin," she said wearily, looking to the heavens and praying for patience. "There's an arrow in it."

"Right."

* * *

oooo

"There," Edmond said, reaching forward and grabbing a piece of orange fabric from a shrub.

Tom, snatched it from him, scowling. His anger grew by the minute.

"Just how far did he take her?" Thoros said, exasperated. "Merlin."

Tom closed his fist around the piece of Granger's dress. "He probably brought her past the wards," he said lowly. "The only people that can cross the Hogwarts wards from the outside are teachers, students, and the creatures of the forest – centaurs and werewolves and the like. Which means that he was meeting someone."

Edmond gulped, pulling at his collar. "Werewolves can get past the school wards?" he asked nervously.

"Magic doesn't always work on magical creatures like it does with us," he said impatiently. "And there are ancient magicks around Hogwarts that limit what the staff can do ward-wise." He paused. "Seriously, have none of you read _'Hogwarts: A History'?"_

"I have," Conan said quietly.

"Part of it," Ambrose added.

Tom rolled his eyes. "That's comforting," he murmured sarcastically.

He tried desperately to distract himself from the rage and worry that ate at his nerves. Hermione Granger was _his._ If he wanted her dead, _he_ was going to be the one to kill her. Not _Gavin Rosier._

Tom was going to peel his face back from his skull.

Dolohov stopped in his tracks, holding up a hand. Tom stilled. The sixth-year pointed down at messy tracks that littered the ground. "Centaurs," he said darkly.

"Just one, looks like," Mulciber suggested quietly. "Went that way, and then turned around and retraced its steps."

Edmond let out a shaky breath. "My Lord," he said. "Not that I don't care about finding Granger – because I do, really, I do – but centaurs are another matter entirely. You know how my cousin works with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – things are really tense."

"Centaurs might be dangerous," Tom said, clenching his teeth, "but they're still only half-breeds. Six wands against a few dozen bows and arrows – I like our chances. We'll be fine."

Just as he said it, something swopped low overhead, ruffling his hair. He had an _Avada Kedavra_ ready on the tip of his tongue, but his teeth clacked together as his eyes tracked the movement of Fawkes the phoenix, who glided through the trees on silent wings.

"Follow him," he breathed. "Quickly."

The six of them set off simultaneously, silent as the grave. Edmond finally broke the silence. "Does that mean Dumbledore's coming too?"

Tom swallowed. "I'm not a bloody seer," he murmured, refusing to admit to his discomfort. "I don't know. We'll press on anyway. After all, we aren't doing anything wrong," he continued. "We'll just claim that we panicked, and didn't even think to stop and get a teacher, that we were afraid we wouldn't have time."

Edmond cleared his throat and nodded. Tom kept his eyes on the bird above, casting a quick _Lumos_ when the trees thickened and the light dimmed. Fawkes flapped his wings and looked back at them, and Tom would swear the phoenix _glared._

Finally the bright bird took a left, and Tom turned sharply between two trees to almost stumble over a group of blooming fireflowers. Righting himself, he looked up.

Granger sat up against a tree, eyes fluttering groggily. Her dress was ripped in several places, and the knee of one of her sheer stockings looked torn. One strap of her dress had been broken, exposing a cluster of faint freckles on her shoulder. Her hair was not much messier than it was on a daily basis, but he noticed blood on her right temple and in the hair above her ear. Her hands were bound behind her by a lurid green rope that shimmered with magic.

Her eyes snapped open, hazy but a lot clearer than he had expected. "Fawkes," she cooed lovingly, smiling as the large bird pecked her gently on the nose. She seemed to notice him then, and her eyes met his. What he saw there made his stomach do something strange.

Relief. Pure relief.

"You're late," she whispered, her lips curving into a smile.

She had been expecting him. She had known he would come for her.

She did not trust him. He knew this. But she trusted him to _want_ her. Trusted him to want her enough to brave the full moon in order to save her from what was likely to be a grisly fate.

He rolled his eyes and strode over to her, dropping down next to her and wiping blood from her face. "Are you hurt?" he asked curtly.

She leaned forward, and he brought his wand down to undo the bonds around her hands with a whispered word. She groaned, bringing her arms around to her front and rubbing at the chaffed skin of her wrists. "A bit, yeah," she said, wincing. "Got hit over the head with a rock," she said. She touched her head, and her hand came away stained with blood. "And then got kicked in the ribs for my sass." She grinned at him. "Sorry to undo your hard work, but I'm pretty sure you're going to have to heal my ribs again."

He snorted, and when she held her hand out he helped pull her to her feet, Conan coming over to support her from behind. She sucked in a breath as she put weight down on her right foot and lifted it back up immediately. "And my ankle is sprained," she said sourly.

"We'll get you to the hospital wing," he said softly.

She laughed sharply. "No hospital wing," she said with a shake of her head. "I don't want questions. Questions make murder so much harder to commit."

Tom froze as he heard a whimper come from behind him, and he followed her dark, vengeful stare to where Rosier stood slumped against a tree, covered in blood. His hand was affixed to the trunk with a massive arrow.

He narrowed his eyes. "You," he hissed lowly. He raised his wand.

"Don't touch him."

He froze. Something dark and horrible slid down his spine – he realized it was the tone of her voice. He turned to look at her.

One of the wings on the back of her costume was broken, the flame-freezing charm having long since died. With her ripped dress and bloody hands and the red stripe of paint across her eyes, she looked like some sort of demonic angel fallen from heaven strictly to avenge wrongs. Gold still glittered from her hair and temples, but the beauty of it was tainted with the crimson smears of blood.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, and Tom saw Edmond take a full step back. She stepped forward, using Avery's arm as a crutch. The sixth-year was back to his expressionless self, but Tom saw the relief in his eyes.

And the anxiety. In fact, they all looked anxious. Even Dolohov looked shifty. And that's when Tom realized that he, too, was uneasy.

"He's mine."

Tom stiffened.

"My Lord," Rosier pled, his voice hoarse with pain. "My Lord, she's lying – she's setting me up, I swear it – "

Tom silenced him with a whispered spell. Rosier opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. He turned back to Hermione.

"What happened to him?"

"You mean the arrow?" she asked blithely. "We had a visitor."

"A centaur," he said, raising his eyebrow. It was not a question, but the skepticism was plain to hear in his voice.

"Yes," she said, rubbing her left forearm as he'd discovered she did when she was thinking of the past. "Lovely fellow. Just dropped in to say hello."

He tried to tell himself that he was not in the mood for her humor. Still, he snorted. "He left you alive."

"I think he thought I was pretty," she said cutely. "I can't say the same for those two over there." She bent her head, and he looked over to where two men lay dead.

"Who?" he asked.

"Grindelwald," she said softly. "Although by the way they spoke I don't think he's the only one in the picture anymore." She gave him a pointed look, and he pulled her wand from his pocket. "Perhaps we can speak of it later. With Draco."

He nodded, his nostrils flaring when she mentioned her best friend. "Fine." He narrowed his eyes. "Rosier is my… _friend,"_ he said quietly. "I should be the one to punish him."

"Punish him?" she said humorously, her eyes full of deadly laughter. "You think I'm going to _punish_ him?" She clicked her tongue, and held out her hand. "I'm going to _kill_ him, Tom." She stared into his eyes for one long moment, and he felt a flash of fear within his ribcage; the same fear he'd felt the night of Slughorn's party, when she'd so ferociously hammered his shield with the raw power of her magic as her eyes had burned orange. "Give me my wand," she said lowly, "before I have Fawkes rip it from your cold, dead hand."

His temper flared, and then snapped. Quick as a snake he brought his hand up and grasped her by the throat, pulling her up onto her toes and squeezing just enough to hurt. His magic surrounded her, invaded her, held her in place as her hands came up to grab his wrist. She shuddered as his aura suffocated hers, heavy and dark and relentless.

He had given her a lot of freedom in her short time at Hogwarts. He had let her tease him, intimidate his followers, get under his skin – because she fascinated him, because he wanted her, because she was the first creature he had ever felt some sort of connection with. And because, he would grudgingly admit, there was something within her that he feared.

But he had his limits. He had been controlled, careful, had let her test the waters and wade in to disturb things. Before, her threats had been amusing, even delightful – but here, in front of his Knights, he would not, _could_ not, tolerate them.

"Let's be clear," he said coldly, meeting her gaze to let her know he was deadly serious. "You don't tell me what to do." He narrowed his eyes. "You don't order me around like some commoner. I have been reasonably courteous to you thus far – I've given you far more respect than I have ever given anyone else before, _especially_ a woman. And I have refrained from trying to order you about like a slave."

She swallowed, the muscle contracting under his hand. The ability to physically overpower her was like a shot of adrenaline to the heart.

"But make no mistake," he continued, tightening his grip even further until she whimpered. "You have no power over me. You don't get to decide the fate of my Knights unless _I permit it._ I don't try to insert myself into your affairs and control the little following you've built here, and you certainly have no right to mine." His nostrils flared. "You are, perhaps, one of the only people I would consider as my equal." He lowered his voice dangerously. "Don't push it."

She made a choked noise in her throat, but he saw what looked like satisfaction in her eyes. He loosened his grip ever so slightly so that she could speak when her skin became uncomfortably hot, but it was not painful enough to make him let go; which pleased him, because he knew that she _could_ make it hurt enough for him to let go. Which indicated, to some extent, submission.

How did she _do_ that, anyway?

To his surprise, her lips quirked up into a pleased smirk. "There it is," she purred lowly, whispering so that his Knights couldn't hear. "The true nature of Tom Marvolo Riddle. I was starting to get impatient, wondering when it might appear." She grinned slowly. "You let me get away with a lot more impertinence than I thought you would be able to tolerate. Still, you hold back."

Her skin heated more, enough so that he was forced to let go, the slight pain punctuated by the shock that he rightly shouldn't feel by now – he should no longer be caught off guard by her unexpected responses to their interactions. She dropped back down onto her feet and rubbed her throat, looking at Fawkes with an amused smile when he ruffled his feathers in agitation.

"Your point has been made," she said, clearing her throat to rid it of the hoarseness that came from his abuse. She would likely have bruises later. "From now on, I will temper my attitude." She held out her hand. "Still, I must insist you give me my wand."

Fawkes beat his wings threateningly, hopping up onto a tree limb only a few feet above Hermione's head. He stared at Tom with beady, intelligent eyes, and when he opened his mouth he screamed harshly. All of his Knights jumped in surprise.

"I thought the phoenix was Dumbledore's bird," he scoffed, narrowing his eyes. "And yet you claim he would do your bidding."

She cocked her head. "Yes," she said. "Fawkes may be Dumbledore's familiar," she whispered, stepping closer to him so that they were nearly nose-to-nose, "but he is, above all, loyal to _me."_

He watched in fascination as those mind-boggling colors swirled into her eyes again until they burned like coals, the same reddish-orange he'd seen in them the last time she had been this angry.

"And if I asked him to claw Mulciber's out," she said, "he would. And if I asked him to drop Avery into the Black Lake, he would do so." Conan shivered from behind her, until she reached back to lay a comforting hand on his arm; he went still instantly, and Tom marveled at her ability to calm with just a touch. "And if I asked him to set Nott on fire, he wouldn't hesitate," she continued. "And if I asked him to tear Lestrange's throat out with his beak he would. And if I asked him to disembowel Dolohov with his talons, he would do so with the utmost haste." She smiled a terrible smile. When she reached down to gently take her wand from his hand, he let her, giving her silent permission to do as she pleased.

"Of course," she said quietly, "I would never ask him to do those things." She paused. "Phoenixes have pure souls. It would be a sin to taint something so lovely with the ugliness of Death. I, however," she said, running her hands over her wand lovingly, "have no such restraints."

Quick as lightning, she pointed her wand at Rosier, lifted Tom's silencing spell, and whispered, _"Crucio."_

Rosier squealed like a stuck pig, writhing against the tree as she tortured him, twisting her wand into a graceful arc and watching in delight as his body followed, bowing under her ministrations. It was over as soon as it had begun, and she stalked towards the weeping blond, grabbing the arrow that pinned him to the tree and yanking it out, the muscles in her arm rippling with the effort.

He dropped to his knees at her feet.

"Please," he said, his voice cracking. "Please, please, I'm sorry – I'm sorry – "

"I vaguely remember those very words coming out of your mouth when I carved you up on the floor of Tom's common room," she said with narrowed eyes, punctuating her statement with a sharp kick to his chin. He flew backwards, landing hard on the ground. She dug her heel into his throat, and he choked. She bared her teeth in a chilling caricature of a smile. "And yet you didn't seem to learn the lesson that I so hoped you would."

She hit him with the curse again, and Rosier screamed a second time. She turned back to Tom, and he stood stock still, utterly unable to move or do anything when she held him under her wild coquelicot stare. "Will you do me a favor, Tom?" she asked quietly.

It was only when he saw tears gleam in her eyes that he nodded. "Perhaps."

"Put up a silencing charm?" she asked.

He did so immediately, unable to shake her enchantment of him, the beauty and power that wrapped around his very soul and squeezed until he could barely breathe. "What else?"

She looked at him, and then back at the pale faces of his Knights. "Don't tell Draco?" she said quietly.

"What are you going to do to him, Granger?" Edmond asked, his skin ashen as he watched his housemate writhe under her spell. Tom knew Edmond had no love for Gavin – quite the opposite, actually – but he still looked perturbed.

"I'm going to kill him, Edmond," she said evening, her gaze still like hot-fired steel as she stared at the slight brunette. She looked from him to Mulciber, from Mulicber to Dolohov, from Dolohov to Avery, and then from Avery to Nott. "Anyone with a weak stomach should leave now," she said firmly. "Anyone that might be tempted to run their mouth should go to Tom to get their memory wiped."

No one moved. She cocked her head. "No one will be judged by me or anyone else if they feel the need to go." Still no one shifted, not even an inch. She nodded.

Finally she looked to Tom. "If you have anything to say," she said seriously, "you should say it. If you want to appeal for Rosier's life, you should do it now." She lifted the torture spell, and Gavin collapsed, boneless. She walked to Tom, standing close to him again.

"I may never call you 'My Lord,'" she whispered softly, her voice low but still loud enough for his Knights to hear in the still, eerie silence of the forest. "But I will defer to your judgment, at least this once." She stared up into his eyes, and the orange faded, swirling into crimson-tinged brown. Her stare was entirely sane; it was part of what frightened him. It was part of what _fascinated_ him. "If you want him to live," she said, her voice steady and clear, "say so. And I'll stop. I'll wipe his memory, and heal his hurts, and send him off to bed. If that's what you want."

All of the emotions that had been raging inside him – anger for her impertinence, fear for her threats, awe for her power – all came to a halt as desire, rich and heady, pounded through his body like a shockwave. She could do anything. She could try to kill them all, burn down the forest, _Avada_ him – and though _he_ knew he couldn't be killed, per say, it still didn't mean he wanted to have to use his horcruxes if he didn't have to.

Instead, she was again deferring to him – but without being threatened to do so. In _front_ of his Knights. He wasn't sure if it was for their benefit, so that he wouldn't lose face with them, or if it was out of genuine respect for his authority – he didn't care. Either way, it was special. This was not a woman who submitted. Oh, he suspected that she would be submissive once he got her into bed – but she was not one who was easily cowed or pulled into line. Druella's little prank earlier tonight proved that much. But she was baring her throat to him, promising him her obedience (albeit temporarily), surrendering to his will regarding an issue that she was obviously extremely passionate about.

It was more intoxicating than any physical desire he could ever feel for her. It was more intoxicating than when he had gripped her by the throat, because this was entirely unprovoked, entirely voluntary. She was surrendering some of her pride to him of her own volition, and something deep within him twanged, something that felt like pure _triumph._

He breathed in heavily, and then brought a finger up to trace the scar on her cheek. "You never told us how you got this one," he said.

She sighed. "I got slapped across the face by a man with a big, nasty ring on his finger," she answered. "The one who was fond of cleated boots."

He cocked his head. "Will it be painful?" he asked, referring back to the matter at hand.

"Very," she said succinctly.

"Will you teach me the spell?"

"No," she said quietly. "Any other one but this one."

He narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps we can renegotiate later."

She swallowed. "I doubt it," she said, her eyes haunted and full of memory. "This is one spell I will take to the grave."

He stepped back from her. "We'll see," he hedged, slipping his hands into his pockets. He nodded towards Rosier, who was lying prostrate on the ground, breathing heavily. "By all means."

Her smile was the wickedest thing he had ever seen. He was grateful for his cloak, because all of the blood in his head rushed south to his cock, and he was rock hard in seconds.

He cursed under his breath, turning to walk back to where his minions stood, all looking sufficiently uneasy. Dolohov alone looked more curious than troubled. Conan's face had slid back into its usual indifference, but he thought there was just a spark of reverent fear in his flat blue eyes.

All of his Knights turned to look at him briefly as he came to stand next to them. He smiled mildly. "Now do you see why I want her?" he said lowly.

They all nodded. Dolohov just watched her, his head cocked in fascination.

They all swiveled to watch as Rosier rolled to his knees and looked up at his executioner in abject terror. His gaze turned to Tom. "Please, My Lord," he said hoarsely. "Please."

It was probably the closest Tom had ever come to feeling pity for someone. He stared back at the blond flatly. "You did this to yourself, Gavin," he said with a shake of his head. "I could save you, but what kind of example would that set?" he said quietly. "She did give you ample warning."

"You aren't really going to strangle him with his own intestines, are you?" said Edmond, his voice just shy of becoming a squeak.

She turned to him and grinned just as she grabbed a weak Rosier by the hair and slammed his face into a tree. "Good memory, Lestrange," she said with a congratulatory smile as Rosier yelped. Edmond shifted, and Tom watched in amusement as a variety of emotions played across his Knight's face: fear, anxiety, and then pleasure at being on the receiving end of her praise.

She was perfect. And she was Tom's.

It didn't matter what she said – she was _his._ Perhaps not in the way he originally intended. Perhaps she would not wear his initials on her skin as Rosier did, or call him "My Lord," or follow whatever orders he gave – but she had submitted to him this once, in an important way, in front of his followers, and that was enough. That was as close as he imagined she would ever come to admitting that she was his.

He was not delusional. He knew she would continue to be something of a thorn in his side, and that some of their political ideals clashed as starkly as night and day. He knew that he couldn't trust her. He knew that she wouldn't trust _him._ And he still needed to know more about her; the mystery surrounding her and Mallery was thrilling, to be sure, but it was also dangerous. _Not knowing_ was a dangerous thing. And he knew that she had secrets. Secrets that could be trouble.

But when he looked into her eyes, the power he saw, the emotion, the confidence – that was all real. The secret smile she used when she was laughing at someone else's expense – she shared that with him. When she had taken the youngest Black aside to threaten him earlier, she had not pulled away from Tom. And when Thoros had slipped up and called him "My Lord" earlier at the ball, she had looked intrigued, amused – not alarmed or offended, not even _surprised_. When her magic had encountered his for the first time, and for every time thereafter, she had not recoiled. She had sought it out, the darkness of her own magic recognizing a kindred spirit in his.

Her conscience might be a problem, of course.

He thought back to Diagon Alley.

 _I like that he has no conscience,_ he'd said about Dolohov. _That can be useful._

 _Or that can be dangerous,_ she'd said.

He thought of the way she had reacted during their first real conversation when he'd threatened Mallery – how she had unleashed her magic into the air and had come snarling to Draco's defense. He'd thought, at the time, that it was pathetic – that it was a weakness. But her power had been anything but weak as it had licked across his skin.

Maybe her conscience would be a problem – but he wondered if it might also be a source of strength. None of his Knights had a very developed sense of compassion, but, despite her ruthlessness in certain situations, she was generally kind. It could provide some contrast – could end up filling a gap in his entourage; a gap that had not occurred to him before.

Something to think about, perhaps.

"But no," she said, answering Edmond's nervous question. "Something far worse."

"Please," Gavin choked out, his face bleeding from where she had bashed it against the rough bark of a tree trunk. "Please don't. Please. You said you would change your mind –"

"I said I _might_ change my mind," she corrected mildly. "Not that I would."

"Please!" he screamed as she yanked him around with a grip on his hair, his body trembling and weak from the _Cruciatus._ "Please, forgive me."

She smiled and let him go, and he looked up at her hopefully from his knees, his face bloody and tear-streaked. His lip trembled.

"I forgive you, Gavin," she said quietly. He sucked in a breath. "After all, nothing inspires forgiveness quite like revenge." She pointed her wand, and his face crumpled.

" _Probilium."_

oooo

* * *

 ***Shivers***

 **I kind of just freaked myself out a little bit with my own characterization of Hermione. It's weird, I've been planning this scene in my mind for a long time, but actually writing it was super creepy. I felt like a cold-hearted bitch.**

 **Snippet from the next chapter:**

 _She pulled back, the strange softness of his lips making her mind buzz. The expression on his face was inscrutable, unbreakable, but his eyes were hazy and hot with the kind of desire that went far beyond the physical. The intensity of it frightened her._

 **Also, I got a comment that Hermione's character seemed contrived. It is very much so, to an extent. She is definitely out of character. I took a lot of creative license with her personality. I have other stories in the works (whether they've been put onto paper or not) where she is far more like her character in the books/movies, because in those stories I don't stray as far away from canon as I did with this one. So anyways. I really appreciate that guest reviewer for pointing it out, and I am not at all offended because it is in fact true. So thank you! Polite criticism is always welcome (and this person was polite; there was no nastiness in the tone of the message, just kind of a blunt realism, which I appreciate). I know that there are a lot of inconsistencies in the story.**

 **Anyway. Next chapter will be up hopefully in the next week.**

 **Please, please, please please please review. I will love you forever if you just drop a line in the box.**

 **Giraffe :)**


	30. Chapter 30

**A big thanks to all of you who have reviewed – y'all are amazing.**

 **StarGirlPotter, pgoodrichboggs, spyrals, AvalontheLadyKiller and Gnoloo, you guys have been consistent reviewers for the past several months. Thank you.**

 **JustRainy: you crack me up. :D**

 **Ivana: you may be on to something with Conan's dream. ;)**

 **Haintrex: in your review of chapter 28, you made a lot of good points. I enjoyed your dissection of the story and characters, and you have paid close attention to the details. So thank you, I'm excited that you have read things so thoroughly and that your thoughts are nearly spot on. Very observant on your part.**

 **As for montyblack101: the fact that you stopped watching GAME OF FUCKING THRONES for my story is BEYOND AWESOME. Because Game of Thrones is the best thing since Harry Potter. I am obsessed. And I know how hard it is to tear yourself away from it, so thankyouthankyouthankyou – I am so flattered.**

 **As for the coquelicot question: MyaDray, Ivana, and Lady Kaliska all get points for their proposals. It is indeed a poppy, and a brand of wine – and when used as a color it refers to a bright reddish orange (or orang-ish red, but to-may-to, to-mah-to). Well done! However, y'all forgot to tell me what houses you're in, so, unfortunately, I have no choice but to award the points to my house, Slytherclaw. So basically 75 points to Slytherin, and 75 points to Ravenclaw (because no matter how certain Pottermore is that I am a Slytherin, I still pine away after my Ravenclaws).**

 **Aaaand here we go.**

* * *

oooo

Father tell me, we get what we deserve  
Oh we get what we deserve

And way down we go  
Way down we go  
Say way down we go  
Way down we go  
-"Way Down We Go" by Kaleo

In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present. –Francis Bacon

Revenge is an act of passion; vengeance of justice. Injuries are revenged; crimes are avenged. –Samuel Johnson

Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up. – Terry Pratchett

* * *

oooo

Anger bubbled under the surface of her skin, volatile and violent—it exploded in her veins, like someone had taken a match to some gunpowder and melted it down to liquid before injecting it straight into her heart, where it pumped fast and feverish through her bloodstream.

The wretched scream that tore from Rosier's throat was horrible, painful; beautiful with how raw and unrestrained it was. Hermione felt the Fawkes within her scream in triumph, even as the version of him on the tree limb tucked his head underneath his wing, shielding his eyes from the carnage that played out in the clearing.

It took two minutes. The screams that filled the clearing were unearthly, disturbing, a sound that was found only in nightmares. Hermione watched as Gavin Rosier died, melted down into nothing, taking stock of the movement of Tom and his Knights out of the corner of her eye. Cold satisfaction swept through her soul as Tom's eyes only ever left her face to briefly look at Rosier as he crumpled in on himself. Tears were streaming openly down Edmond's cheeks, and Thoros' eyes were misty with horror as he watched what was left of his housemate dissolve into a hot, messy pile of viscera, his veins and arteries pulverized by the spell and spraying Hermione with blood.

This time it was Mulciber who threw up. Hermione ignored the sound of retching as she stared down at her handiwork. She felt her soul fracture as she knelt down and plucked a piece of blood-matted straw blond hair that was still stuck to Rosier's partially dissolved skull, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger until it fell apart, blowing away on the cold autumn breeze. Pain and hatred and cruel bitterness surged through her, and she felt something oily and black slide along her magical aura, seeping into it and leaving a dark, foul stain.

She closed her eyes when she felt another corner of her heart go black, rotting away like spoiled meat. She looked up to the sky as she ran her fingers through a puddle of blood. "I'm sorry, Harry," she murmured. Tears filled her eyes and streaked down her face. She wiped them away, mindless of the blood it left behind.

Slowly, she stood, and turned. Dark gratification surged through her veins, and she shuddered with the high of it, the darkness of the Haitian spell kneading her soul with vicious claws. She kicked aside a cracked, bloody femur with her foot, her pretty gold shoes now stained with the viscous crimson liquid.

Tom was the first to speak. "Leave us for a moment," he said to his Knights. "Take Ambrose back to my commons. The password is 'tenebris.' I'll meet you back there in a few minutes."

Slowly, they responded, shuffling around as if in a daze. Thoros and Dolohov picked Mulciber up off the ground, supporting him between them.

"Mulciber," Hermione said, her voice quiet.

They all stopped in their tracks, staring at her with varying degrees of horror and awe. Mulciber swallowed.

"Find me tomorrow," she said, meeting his eyes and delighting in his shudder. "I'll see what I can do to fix the damage I did to your mind. I can't make any promises."

He nodded, swallowing. He did not look like he trusted himself to speak. Lifting her hand she waved them off, and the five of them set off through the trees. Avery looked back at her from his place at the rear with concern in his eyes; she gave him a comforting wink. His lips quirked, and then they were gone.

The fireflowers still glowed brightly in the clearing, illuminating the space around them and making the blood on the ground shine spectacularly. It might have been called beautiful, if the circumstances were not what they were. She and Tom both turned to Fawkes as the bird lifted his head. Black beady eyes stared at her.

She was surprised to find no judgment there. Just an odd mingling of approval and sadness that didn't quite make sense.

"Dumbledore can't know about this," she said in warning, speaking softly to her feathered friend.

He bowed his head in what she assumed was agreement. Then he turned to look at Tom one last time before he dropped from the tree and drifted through the forest, his wings as silent as Death.

* * *

oooo

Tom stepped towards her just as she turned, meeting her eyes. They were back to their typical brown, shades of gold and chestnut and cocoa twinkling from beneath those long eyelashes, framed by the scarlet stripe across her eyes. It made her look as if she were going off to battle.

Once again, he thought back to something she'd said earlier: _"That girl was ripped to shreds and reconstructed as something else."_ She'd used the word "something" instead of "someone." Now, it made more sense.

Her gaze alighted on his, and he stared at her, moving closer to her. She did not move, merely smiled a bitter smile, and when he reached her, he lifted his hands to her face, cupping her jaw in his palms. He ignored the feel of the blood on his hands – a mixture of both hers and Rosier's.

"You shouldn't have let me do that," she breathed shakily, closing her eyes. He relished in the dark magic that swirled in the air around them, full of violence and anger and basic, primal lust.

"I'm glad I did," he countered lowly. Her eyes blinked open, and she looked at him, her expression flickering with nameless emotions.

He wasn't sure who instigated the contact, but in an instant his mouth was moving against hers, his tongue dipping between her lips to taste her. He could do nothing to prevent the sound that tore from his lips as a feeling of completion rushed through him – this was what he'd been waiting for: the feeling of her lips against his, the softness of her body as it arched into his embrace. The contact was exhilarating.

She brought her hands up beneath his cloak to clutch at his biceps, her nails digging with delicious ferocity into the muscle there, and he tilted her head back, plundering her mouth and licking at her bittersweet taste. She tasted like sugar and mint and moonshine, and he swore he could feel the blackness of the spell she'd used slide from her tongue onto his.

She made a noise in her throat, a sort of whimper, and the sound shot straight to his cock. Bringing one hand down from her face to wrap around her waist, he pushed her back against a tree, ignoring the feeling of bloody slush under his boots. Boldly, he pressed his hips to hers and ground his erection into her pelvis, and triumph roared through him when she groaned, deep and primal and born of pure desire. He swallowed her moans of pleasure as he devoured her, his hand sliding back into her hair as the other tightened around her waist. It was like he'd strayed headfirst into a treacherous, rumbling volcano on the verge of a cataclysmic eruption, and every inch of his body felt inflamed, unbalanced, ready to fly apart under her hands.

She clutched greedily at the muscles of his arms, digging her nails into his skin through the fabric of his shirt and pressing her body up against his as their magic mingled in the air around them, heavy with a primitive, yearning desire that settled into their very bones.

Violence and sex had always gone hand in hand – just like pain and pleasure.

She was sensuous and powerful and beautiful and he wanted her, he wanted her, he _wanted her_. Salazar, he wanted her. He ached with how much he wanted to tear her dress off, how he wanted to press her up against one of the ancient trees and take her right there in the middle of the forest. Her lips and mouth were searing, her skin hot to touch. Her hair crackled as it often did when she was passionate about something or performing magic, and the smell of fire and lavender invaded his senses as his fingers trailed over the soft skin of her neck.

He pulled away from her when her whimper became one of pain. He loosened his grip on her waist, remembering that she had a broken rib. Touching his lips to hers one last time, he scraped her bottom lip with his teeth achingly slow, relishing in the way her breath hitched in pleasure even as her body ached with her hurts.

"You need to be healed," he said against her cheek, dragging his lips up to her temple. "That head wound needs to be seen to."

"Don't pretend like you aren't a good enough healer to fix it," she said breathily. Despite the vulnerability in her tone and the lust that clouded her eyes, there was still something cheeky in her manner that had him grinning. "Take me back to the castle," she continued, the order in her voice clear as day. "I hate this bloody forest."

He chuckled. When he pulled back, she stumbled unsteadily. Putting an arm around her back and behind her knees, he swung her up into his arms just as she lost consciousness.

* * *

oooo

When she woke, she was lying on something soft – something that smelled like sandalwood and bergamot and pepper. Instantly she was on high alert, and she sat up. She immediately regretted it. Her head swam and her skull pounded with a dull, terrible ache. She brought a hand up to her temple and hissed.

"You need to take it easy."

Her eyes slid over to the left, where Tom sat in a wooden chair, leaning back and looking completely at ease. The window behind him showed that it was still dark outside, the moon still high and full.

"What time is it?" she asked groggily. "How long have I been out?"

"It's just past three," he said casually. "You've only been out for an hour or so." He leaned forward in his chair, watching her with dark, fathomless eyes. "I was hoping you would sleep a bit longer. I've already healed your injuries, but you could use some more rest."

She shook her head, trying to get her bearings. The room was dark but for the moonlight and a small oil lamp on the table next to the bed. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the space as she had been trained to do – it was habit by now. The coverlet was green, the sheets crisp and white, and the walls and floors were the same as they were in the Slytherin dorms: a mixture of black marble and green wallpaper with a silver and black imperial trellis pattern. There was a wardrobe, an armchair and a desk, and a window seat under the large bay window. There were a few personal effects: quills, inkwells and parchment, and a lot of books – but otherwise it was cool and empty, and had a detached sort of feeling to it.

Fitting.

"This is your room," she said quietly, her eyes poring over every part of the room and committing it to memory. It was not a question.

"Yes."

She looked back at him, and suddenly the events of earlier came rushing back in full force.

She had killed Rosier. Slaughtered him mercilessly, inflicting upon him the worst sort of death imaginable. She had watched dispassionately as the skin had sloughed off his bones and his organs had dissolved like smoldering ashes. She had stared into his bright blue eyes as they'd melted within his skull – had listened to his unearthly shrieks until his lungs and esophagus no longer had enough substance to sustain them. She had stood stock still as his blood had sprayed her skin.

It had felt good. Better than good.

And Tom had kissed her. She shivered with the memory, licking her lips as she replayed the encounter in her mind. It had been volatile, passionate – sexual in a dark, filthy sort of way that had her knickers wet just thinking about it. He had pressed his body against hers, trapping the heat of her skin between them, and had worked her lips open with minimal effort, expertly sliding his tongue over hers as if he had been snogging her all his life.

And _gods,_ the man could kiss.

The sound that had escaped his throat when he'd brushed his tongue against hers for the first time had been raw and unrestrained; it was the sound of victory and relief and desire all rolled into one – as if he had spent his whole life anticipating that moment, and finally experiencing it was as close to total fulfillment as he would ever get.

It was a heady sensation. It made her feel powerful. Desirable. As if she could whisper any wish in his ear and he would grant it, just to taste her again.

She thought that maybe she should have fought harder. Pushed him away. Remembered all the reasons why it was wrong –

But the way the hard planes of his torso had fit so perfectly against hers had her trembling, remembering how easy it had been, how she'd itched to run her hands underneath his shirt to see if it was as smooth and muscled as it looked, how she'd longed to have his bare chest press against hers as he fucked her right there in the forest –

She had fantasized before. There wasn't a woman alive who'd ever met Tom Riddle in his present form who hadn't thought about what it would be like to kiss him, touch him, have him run his hands over her body and sheath himself inside of her. She would bet money on that.

But _before_ she hadn't known what he would taste like. _Before_ she hadn't had any concept of what it might be like to snog him, trapped in his embrace. Now she did – she _knew –_ and nothing would ever be the same.

Blinking rapidly, she forced herself back into the present, shoving her attraction for him to the back of her mind. Even with her compartmentalized brain, there was only so much she could do to block it out when he was sitting there looking so sinfully delicious, divested of his vest and bowtie and with the top two buttons of his shirt undone. And she was on his _bed._ That certainly didn't help either.

Suddenly she grinned.

"What?" he asked lazily, folding his hands together and leaning forward with his knees on his elbows.

"Can you imagine the looks on the faces of the entire female population if they knew I had been in your _room?"_ she scoffed lightly, feeling amused despite the darkness that still lingered heavily in her mind. "On your bed, no less. They would have a _fit."_ She snorted. "I would be murdered. Killed by a mob of angry schoolgirls whose collective dream of being your girlfriend would be dashed."

He huffed out a quiet laugh. "Of all the girls in the world, _Miss Granger,"_ he murmured lowly, "you are, perhaps, the only one that deserves to be there."

She met his eyes for a brief moment, and was terrified of what she saw there, of the pure carnal greed that shone from his oceanic gaze. She looked away hastily, suddenly inexplicably nervous.

She thought back to her lessons with Malfoy.

 _Confidence, Granger,_ he'd said. _You want him to think that you're relatively inexperienced, compared to him – which you are – but not shy. Walk that line between nervous and bashful._

Flaring her nostrils, she looked back up, feeling some of her confidence return even as her hands trembled ever so slightly and her stomach tied itself in knots.

"You told Ambrose that you would try to fix his mind," Tom said, cocking his head curiously. "Why?"

She swallowed, grateful for the turn in conversation. "Tools are worth only as much as their usefulness," she said coolly. "During my stay here, I've found myself spending more and more time with you and, by extension, the rest of your posse. It makes things awkward when one of them is a sniveling mess any time I so much as look at him."

"How _did_ you do that?" he asked, his eyes accusing. "I've never seen anyone warp an _Obliviate_ like that."

She was silent but for a slow, triumphant smirk. It took him a moment, but then he seemed to realize, and she just caught the barely perceptible widening of his eyes before he narrowed them, glaring.

Of _course_ he would never suspect she knew Legilimency. Lord Voldemort thought himself to be exceptional – leagues above everyone else. And he _was –_ but as a result he often assumed that he was the only one to be able to do certain things. It would never occur to him that someone else his age would be just as gifted in the mind magicks, or that someone else would know about the Room of Requirement, or that someone else would be able to pinpoint the locations of all of his horcruxes – much less destroy them. He was not _completely_ dismissive of other peoples' abilities; but the realization usually came at a price. He'd only respected the power of sacrifice after he had been defeated by an infant. He'd only realized that his wand was not so special when it had connected with Harry's in the Little Hangleton graveyard. He had only begun to hunt Hermione down as Undesirable No. 2 after he'd seen her use the dreaded _Probilium_ curse to destroy Cassius Warrington right in front of his eyes – and even then only because she had been _smiling_ when she'd done it.

"Impossible," he said, his tone dripping with arrogance. "There is no way you are that gifted in Legilimency this young."

"How about I let you in on a secret?" she said, twisting her torso to test her body. She winced and put a hand to her tender ribs. "I know a few of your secrets, so I suppose it's only fair. First," she began casually, cracking her neck from side to side and registering the soreness in her throat from where he had grabbed her earlier. "I had a very gifted teacher," she said. "Second: I have a trap mind, as you know, and as such was able to grasp the mind magicks more firmly and more quickly than most of my peers. In addition to my trap mind, I have an eidetic memory. I am able to retain vast quantities of information, and I have been exercising my mind in such a way over so many years that it has only strengthened." She paused, and raised an eyebrow. "Like you, I was a brilliant child. By age three I was speaking nearly as well as an adult. By four I had a full grasp on the written word. Accidental magic was frighteningly potent. By age eight I was fluent in Russian and French. I started to study Arithmancy at nine," she lied – it was only partially a lie, though, because she had been working on algebra at the time, "and in my first year of school I was studying the same material as third and fourth years in my spare time, sometimes more advanced than that. As I've said before, I brewed Polyjuice my second year. By third year I knew a bit of defensive and offensive magic – by fifth year I was quite adept. And then the war happened, and my education far surpassed the limits of what school could offer." She flared her nostrils. "You aren't the only one who was a bit of a child prodigy, Riddle." She cleared her throat, relishing in the spark of jealousy she saw in his eyes. "And last but not least, as you know, I'm not eighteen. I'm older than you by over five years."

This time his eyes did widen. "You're already twenty-three?" he said skeptically.

"As of September, yes," she drawled lazily, scraping blood from underneath her fingernails. He had obviously performed a simple cleaning spell, but there was still quite a bit of blood she would need to shower off. "And I started learning Occlumency and Legilimency when I was sixteen. When I started my lessons I could already perform extraordinary memory modification charms. So I've been practicing the mind magicks for seven years. I've been an expert for nearly four."

"You've been in my head," he growled threateningly, holding his wand in a tight grip. She hadn't even seen him get it out.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said with a scoff. "I wouldn't _dare."_ Stretching her body out, she moved to the edge of the bed, maneuvering her skirts out of the way so she could see her ankle. She rotated it, felt no sign of pain or weakness, and stood. She faced him, only two feet away. She could reach out and touch him, if she so desired. And she _did_ desire. But she refrained. "Out of all the people in this school, Tom Riddle, you are the only one save Dumbledore that I wouldn't dare mess with." She shrugged. "I don't think I want to get inside your head," she lied. "I'm not sure I would like what I found."

"You might," he said quietly, his eyes still angry. "You might feel right at home."

"Is that an invitation?" she asked coyly.

He snorted. "If you ever try to get into my head without my permission," he said strongly, "I will unleash hell. I wouldn't recommend it."

She hummed. "That almost sounds like a challenge." Feeling some of her recklessness return to her, fueled by the residual darkness of Rosier's death, she put one hand on the back of his desk chair and leaned forward to speak directly into his ear. "I've lived in hell for a very long time," she whispered, repeating the sentiment from earlier when she'd been talking to Flynn and Greengrass. "Do your worst."

To punctuate her statement, she sent vines of the foul magic from the fresh stain on her soul out towards his aura, brushing them against it in the faintest of caresses. She felt him shudder in response, and delighted in the way that he first recoiled and then reached for her, his large hands dwarfing the span of her waist, not squeezing or groping – just resting; the barest of touches. She pulled back, and met his eyes before she moved ever so slightly to brush her lips across his in a butterfly kiss. He did not move, still as a statue; she supposed he was, in a way – carved from pale marble and onyx, the only colors the faint rosiness of his lips and the occasional glint of blue-grey-green in his eyes. Like a black and white painting that someone had decided to jazz up with just the faintest traces of pigment.

She pulled back, the strange softness of his lips making her mind buzz. The expression on his face was inscrutable, unbreakable, but his eyes were hazy and hot with the kind of desire that went far beyond the physical. The intensity of it frightened her.

She straightened, and he let her go, letting his hands slide down her waist and over her hips as she pulled away from him. She struggled to ignore the tent in his trousers.

"Do my secrets please you?" she asked quietly, taking a turn about the room in her soiled, tattered gown. She ran her hand over the coverlet, wondering what it would feel like against her naked skin. Soft, and cool, she imagined. "I don't give away secrets easily, you understand." She turned back to him and smirked. "Draco would be absolutely mortified if he knew that I told you." Her smirk turned into one of those enigmatic smiles she had come to reserve just for him.

"Does Mallery know how to do all the mind magicks as well?" he asked curtly, watching her with a hawk's gaze as she perused his room. When she reached the bedside table, she saw him stiffen almost imperceptibly out of the corner of her eye. She smiled internally. She knew what he kept in the drawer. As attuned to dark magic as she was, especially after the events of tonight, she could practically taste the vile magic of the diary horcrux on her tongue; especially considering that she had once worn one of the disgusting things around her neck.

"We all learned," she said nostalgically. "It was imperative, when the prospect of capture and torture was eminent. For those who couldn't get a grasp on it, we gave them cyanide capsules to keep in their mouth." She shrugged. "It felt cruel, at the time. But it was necessary." She traced the pattern of the wallpaper with her fingers. "Draco has nearly unparalleled skill in Occlumency. He is exceptional at it. Then again, he was raised to be poised, controlled at all times. It was not a stretch for him to apply that to his mind."

There was silence for a moment. Then he spoke. "I feel as if I should kill you."

She turned to him and smiled fully, a true, unrestrained smile, finding the frustration in his eyes amusing. "So why don't you?"

"I might still," he murmured, once again leaning on his elbows. "But then I can't help think of what a waste it would be."

She looked down at the floor with a smile. "Funny," she said quietly. "I often think the same thing about you."

It was silent after that, but strangely enough it wasn't uncomfortable. There was no lingering emptiness where something should have been said, no tension in the air except for their physical desire for one another. When he finally broke the silence, he asked her about a subject that she didn't really want to discuss.

"The spell."

"No," she said sharply, her tone brooking no argument. "I would die before I taught anyone else that spell," she said passionately. She looked to him, tracing her finger across the front of his dresser. His eyes followed the movement, still hazy with desire. "Your soul is damaged enough," she continued. "At least I have a sense of empathy that grounds me, keeps me from falling to the darkness. If I thought it would offend you I wouldn't say it, but: you don't have much of a conscience. And a conscience is absolutely necessary if you practice the _Probilium_ spell," she continued forcefully. "It would turn you into something unrecognizable. A monster. No better than a crazed werewolf under the spell of the full moon."

"As you've said before, I've already taken life," he said with narrowed eyes. "One spell is just the same as another when the end result is Death."

She shook her head. "Not at all. Murder splits the soul," she clarified. "The killing curse is the most efficient way to achieve this, yes. But it would be the same as if you slit a man's throat or pushed him off a cliff or hit him with a _Confringo_ that made him explode into a million fiery pieces. But _Probilium_ doesn't just make a tear in the soul," she continued, trying to explain as best she could. "It takes a part of you with it, and leaves only a dark stain behind. It is…it requires far more intent than the killing curse," she said, exhaling heavily.

"Explain," he ordered quietly. The silky tone of his voice made her stomach jump, and she felt that odd chill along with the yearning to listen, to make him notice her, to obey, that she always felt when he spoke in that low, sibilant voice. It was the tone of voice that made her understand how sensible people had been trapped into doing anything for him – how they'd longed to please him, even at the expense of their own safety and sanity.

Her nostrils flared, trying to come up with the proper words. She spoke slowly, deliberately, needing him to know – to _understand._ "The killing curse requires the intent to kill, often fueled by hate or anger – and just as often fueled by necessity. And even Death can be a mercy. But it is a quick Death. Even some of the other spells I've created, intended to cause a painful death, are relatively swift, and done more out of revenge than anything else. But _Probilium_ not only requires the intent to kill, or the intent to hurt – it requires the intent to inflict the most painful Death a human being could possibly ever suffer. It requires the complete awareness that you are tearing another living thing apart in the slowest, most agonizing way possible. It requires a hatred that far surpasses what you need to perform the Unforgivables."

She paused, noticing that she had his undivided attention. "One thing is most important, however," she continued quietly. "And that is the ability to be corrupted. The _Probilium_ doesn't feed exclusively on hatred and revenge. It requires the warping of values, the sacrificing of part of your conscience, the guilt that one feels after casting it. It would not be easy for you to cast. It would not be as powerful. And without the proper fuel, it would take whatever else it could find instead – including your intellect – and leave your mind no more than a broken shell."

He watched her curiously. "Where did you learn it?" he asked.

"In an unexpected place," she said faintly. "A place I will never again visit." She looked up and met his eyes, letting them shine with emotion that she usually tried to control when in his presence; a mixture of pure fear and deep regret. "I wish I had never learned that spell." She swallowed, and perched on the edge of his armchair, folding her hands in her lap and shivering with the aftereffects of the very spell she spoke of. "Every time I cast it, it only pulls me under further," she murmured. "Its power is addictive. Each time you perform it you feel the desire to do it more. And each time it takes more of you with it. It is especially dangerous when overused," she said, clearing her throat. "If you abuse it, it will feed off of your soul until you have nothing positive left to offer it in payment. That is when, as I mentioned before, it will start to find other things to take as sacrifice. Your psyche will start to rot away just as readily as your soul, and after you lose your mind your body will start to deteriorate." She swallowed. "Eventually, it will kill you." She met his eyes. "Every part of you," she whispered. "No matter how safe you think it may be."

She spoke of his horcruxes, of course. He wouldn't know, but she hoped he would take the message to heart. He narrowed his eyes.

"In a way," she continued, chewing at her lip in anxiety, "I'm sparing you a terrible fate. Because you have nothing positive to sacrifice to the spell, it would immediately start to rip into your mind. If you want to stay as brilliant as you are, Tom, then you wouldn't risk it. I have already risked some of my own sanity by casting it again, when I swore to myself and Draco that I would not." She stood. "And I would ask that you not bring it up to me again."

To her surprise, he actually looked like he believed her. "How many times have you used it?" he asked. "And how many more times do you think you'd be able to cast it before it drove you mad?"

"Tonight was the fifth time," she answered, scuffing her shoe on the floor. It made her realize just how sore her feet were from standing in heels all night. Tom had cleaned them of the blood and dirt and gore, but had not removed them. She reached down to unbuckle them. "I might have one left in me," she continued. "If I ever use it, it will be for someone who deserves nothing less."

He hummed. "I still want to learn it."

She smiled, unsurprised. "I know you do. And part of me wishes I could teach it to you, just to see you punish the ones who look down on you with such disdain," she whispered. She met his eyes once more, kicking off her shoes. "I've known that feeling," she murmured. "It sinks down into your bones until it becomes part of what defines you – part of what you hate about yourself. It makes you want to tear the world apart and watch it burn, to spit in the faces of the people who think they're better than you because of something as silly as blood or name. But it's not worth the sacrifice you would have to make," she said. She ignored the way his jaw tightened when she mentioned blood.

She wriggled her toes in relief, pushing down on the balls of her feet and stretching them against the plush green rug that lay over the cold marble floor. "It would be a waste of your potential. You are, to be sure, an extraordinary wizard, Tom," she said truthfully. "More than extraordinary. I'm not pandering to your ego. We both know it is true. Someday the world will know it too, if they don't have some idea already." She saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes. "But even you can't rewrite the rules of magic," she said. "You aren't a god. Every action has a reaction. And everything has a method of destruction. Life in and of itself is cyclical. Nothing is permanent." She zoned out, staring out the window at the moon as she remembered the slick feel of Hufflepuff's cup under her hand as she'd stabbed it with the basilisk fang. "Immortality is fleeting and empty – the world's most tempting lie," she whispered. "Many people think they achieve it – through Dark magic or Light – but they will one day find that they have been deceived in the cruelest way possible." She smirked, and her eyes focused in on him again, noticing the way his hands had clenched into fists and his eyes gleamed with a mixture of arrogance, anger and fear. "Friedrich Nietzsche said that it was foolish to think that death is the opposite of life," she said casually. "That the living being is only a rare species of the dead." She shrugged. "After all the Death I've seen, I can't say I have much basis for disagreement."

"Immortality is the ultimate achievement," he said in denial. "It gives you power over Death – the most inevitable of endings," he continued, his overconfidence bleeding through his words. "How can something be fleeting when it is infinite?" He looked angry, she realized; a quiet, viscous sort of anger that hid behind a mask of indifference.

"Nothing is infinite," she responded tiredly. "Someday the world will die, consumed by our ever-expanding sun. Someday even the sun will die. There is no such thing as infinite. Everything ends. Whether we die tomorrow or in a thousand years, we will eventually expire." She raised an eyebrow. "The universe needs balance, Riddle," she continued smartly. "Magical and non-magical both. It couldn't allow such an imbalance of nature. Which is why everything has a counter. Even vampires can be killed. Similarly, instruments of immortality have ways of being destroyed, however vague and difficult they may be. There is nothing in existence that doesn't have a counter of some kind. Nothing is allowed that sort of power. You can be sure that even if you found the Fountain of Youth, there would be some loophole. There are no exceptions to nature. No true abominations are allowed to exist without a way of being undone."

Her gaze bored into his. If only she could make him understand! "It is the height of hubris – and stupidity – to think that any one of us is exceptional enough to be exempted from the laws of magic and nature. I pity the man who tries. I imagine it makes the prospect of Death so much more terrifying. We have been so successful in the past century at the art of living longer and staying alive that we have forgotten how to die. Too often we learn the hard way. But what do we have to fear, really?" she whispered, leaning against the foot of his bed. "I would much rather die than live on and on and on until I know nothing but boredom and loneliness. Besides, imagine what might come after Death – who knows what awaits us beyond the Veil?" she speculated hopefully, seeing Ron's face in her mind's eye. "It is the ultimate opportunity for discovery." She grinned. "I've always been a bit too curious for my own good."

His jaw ticked, and his eyes were cold and inscrutable, devoid of any of the emotion she'd seen moments ago. It was these times that she truly couldn't get a read on him: when he was at his most Slytherin – when he pulled himself back from the world, isolating himself from the rest of them. She wondered if it was a means of protection. Did he do it to avoid facing the truth? Did he do it to block out any potential for self-doubt? Doubt, she knew, grew like a fungus. It could grow in places most things couldn't. It thrived in the dark, in the wet, in the places of your mind that you had the most trouble illuminating. And then by the time you noticed it, it was too late to counteract it – it would already have gained a foothold.

For she knew something that he most certainly did not; something that was only realized through an existence such as hers, full of bitter experience and chaos and pain. She knew that your mind could hurt you more deeply than anything else could. No spell, knife, or words could do nearly as much damage to you as your mind could.

She had thought that he could not be reached; that he was, by all accounts, human, but that there was nothing truly human about him other than his appearance. Originally, she had decided that it would be foolish to try to change him, to try to make him feel; and she had not seen any indication that he _was_ able to feel – at least anything positive. She'd thought instead that she might be able to divert his hatred and skewed ideals to something other than blood purity by example and careful manipulation – but looking at him now, and thinking back to every interaction she'd shared with him, she realized that he was so much more vulnerable than she had expected him to be. Not weak; never weak. But not rigid. There was something that she was coming to realize about him, something that she had known to an extent but had never imagined would be so prevalent: his greatest weakness – or strength, she supposed it could be – was his never-ending thirst for knowledge. It was far more consuming than she had believed. And it left him far more open to her than she'd thought. She had operated under the assumption that he was set in his beliefs, blinded by his hatred of Muggles and the confusion of his heritage. But he was turning out to be so much more flexible than she'd suspected. The way he reacted when she brought up something new and unexpected – he soaked it up like a sponge. And when she touched on a topic that she knew was a dangerous issue to bring up with him, he was frustratingly quiet. There was an uncertainty buried under the layers of arrogance and power and self-possession; not an uncertainty about his own importance – that, she feared, would never change, because at his core he was still a narcissistic megalomaniac with more than a few sociopathic tendencies – but an uncertainty about how the world worked, about what was real and what was not, what was possible and what was impossible.

 _It's impossible to know what's changed,_ she had said to Dumbledore and Malfoy when talking about the timeline. _Little things, like the fertilization of an egg, even; a classmate of ours that was a girl in our original timeline might end up being a boy in this one, or might have a twin sister or something of the like. We just can't know._

Dumbledore had made a wise point. _That makes things even less stable for you, I fear. You know how the future unfolds, but some details are different. Say a young muggleborn boy, before he learns of the wizarding world, gets hit by a car and dies in your timeline. In this one, the car is running five seconds behind, and the boy survives, and grows up to be Minister of Magic someday; or the next dark wizard – perhaps Gellert's protégé. So assuming you know how things go and acting accordingly might get you into some serious trouble._

Again, she had spoken of the same issue with him whilst during their first lesson together in the Room of Requirement. He had asked her why she didn't think she would kill Riddle.

 _If this truly is a parallel dimension, then this Tom Riddle could be different than the one I knew in my world. Something as small as a single synapse in the brain that could be connected where it wasn't before. I can't kill him knowing that he might turn out to be relatively harmless, or even_ _important_ _to the future of the wizarding world in a positive way._

 _Do you think that this version of Tom Riddle is harmless?_ Albus had asked.

She had scoffed. _I_ _ **know**_ _he's not. Still. Hypothetically._

Hypothetically. But what if the hypothetical she had talked about was _reality?_ Tom was certainly no saint. He was not much different than she imagined he had been in her original timeline, if at all. But what if there was just the tiniest bit of an opening in his mind where there hadn't been before? What if the seeds of doubt that she had unknowingly sowed whilst simply talking to him were taking root, and she was able to change the way he thought? What if she was able to do more than divert his attentions away from blood purity – what if she could stop him from making more horcruxes? What if she could show him all of the incredible things he could do _without_ the evil that had polluted his head in the past? What if she could stop his progression in its tracks, and replace the most powerful Dark wizard the world had ever seen into the most powerful Minister of Magic the world had ever seen? What if she could get him to refocus that curiosity, that thirst for knowledge, that cold, unfeeling intellect into governing the wizarding world? He would have power. He would have respect. He would be in a position where he could do anything he wanted, use the people around him at his disposal. Perhaps he would never be benevolent, but he didn't have to be the creature of nightmares that had somehow lost his mind to such savagery.

If she were to show him – one day, _perhaps,_ if it were appropriate – a glimpse of what he became in her future: the terrifying, hideous creature that reveled in bloodshed and killed without restraint or rationale – would he be horrified to see what he would become? The Tom Riddle she had gotten to know in this timeline would be disgusted by the lack of reasoning and purpose behind his future self's campaign. His vanity, even though it was secondary to his desire for power, would be shattered with the knowledge that his beautiful visage would be ruined, morphing into something unrecognizable and inhuman. He would be furious that he had let his mind become so fractured that he could no longer even safely perform Legilimency on an unconscious mind. He would be livid that his intellect had broken down, a sacrifice he'd unwittingly made when he'd chosen to split his soul six times (inadvertently seven times).

She imagined he would be pleased with a whole host of other things. But the young Lord Voldemort she was acquainted with in this timeline would strive to do better. If she could paint a picture of a more satisfying victory – being able to rule the people with respect and fear rather than _violence_ and fear whilst still giving him the freedom to delve into the curiosities of Dark magic and everything else under the sun – would he take it? Could she insidiously plant these ideas in his mind without the use of Legilimency and without him suspecting her of manipulation? For his pride would not allow him to be manipulated by her; if he found out she was playing him, her plan could backfire.

Something to think about. She would talk to Draco about it later.

"I'm rambling," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I get restless after I perform Dark magic."

His nostrils flared as he breathed out heavily through his nose, his expression infuriatingly unreadable. "You need more rest."

"I need to be clean," she corrected, holding out her hands and showing him the blood that still congealed around her fingernails and in the crooks of her arms. " _Then_ perhaps I can rest. But I can't go back up to Gryffindor Tower like this. Do you have a shower I could use?"

His smile was slow and sinful. "I do." He got up from his chair, stretching to his full height – not quite 6'3", if she was estimating correctly. He walked towards her, and she turned to face him fully, clutching her skirts in her fists to keep her hands from shaking.

Gods _,_ she wanted him.

"I would ask you if you want company," he purred lowly, running a finger down her cheek in a torturous caress, "but I imagine that wouldn't be very conducive to your healing."

She swallowed, and looked away from his eyes when they became too intense for her to handle. "Probably not."

"Bathroom's through there," he said, gesturing to a door across from his bed. "There's a shower and a bath. The towels have all been laundered."

She nodded and moved in that direction, shuddering in relief when she exited his personal space. Being close to him always set her on edge – like she was hyper-aware of her own body in approximation to his.

When she got to the door, she turned back, eyebrows drawing down as she thought of something. "Tell me: why do you feign concern for me while we're in private?" she asked bluntly. "You must know that _I_ know that you don't actually care."

He put his hands in his trouser pockets and leaned against the foot of the bed. He frowned. "I care about things that I consider to be mine."

She barked out a laugh. "You wouldn't even know what to do with me if I _was_ yours, Riddle," she said wearily. She met his eyes with a smile. "Fiendfyre can't be enslaved," she said quietly. "Keep that in mind." She turned again to the bathroom, stepped inside and began to close the door. She paused. "Oh, and Tom?" she added.

He nodded, expectant.

"Thanks for coming to look for me," she whispered softly.

Without another word, she shut the door behind her, alone with her thoughts at last.

oooo

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 **Don't worry, my lovelies, now that the dam has broken and they've kissed, they won't be able to keep their hands to themselves from now on. Be prepared for some serious sexual tension and more intense scenes between them.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _As he stepped through the portrait hole, he wondered when, exactly, his loyalties had shifted._

 **Please review. Y'all have been so amazing about reviewing so far, it's been wonderful. It really does lift my spirits immensely, and it motivates me to update faster. You're all gems.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	31. Chapter 31

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed!**

 **This chapter will be a bit shorter – it's just kind of an update as to where people's thoughts are at this point – Hermione, Tom, and a little bit of Avery. Next chapter there will be more interaction, more sexual tension, and a dash of Edmond Lestrange.**

 **Thanks to Jess6800, Gullb3rg, Black Banshee, and AvalontheLadyKiller for being steady reviewers. You are all amazing.**

 **Special thanks to NinaAM, who sent one of the sweetest reviews ever, even though English isn't her first language.**

 **ASunInWinter: that's AWESOME that you have a degree in Haitian studies. I have a good friend who worked with the Haitian government for a long time, and I find the culture fascinating.**

 **JustRainy: I haven't been getting your PMs! If I was, I would respond to them. Lame, Fanfiction. Lame.**

 **Critic lol: that's okay. I'm not so great at math…ever.**

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It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. –Frederick Douglass

Catch on fire and people will come for miles to see you burn. –John Wesley

Darkness is to space what silence is to sound, i.e., the interval. –Marshall McLuhan

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oooo

After she was done washing with his products – _his_ fucking soap and shampoo, which smelled like him and engulfed her senses until she couldn't think straight – she slid down the wall of the shower to sit on the floor, the water beating down on her from above.

She felt weary. Tired down to the very marrow of her bones. She just wanted to curl up into a ball and think about anything but the events of the last few hours and the terrifying wizard that sat on the other side of that bathroom door.

She began to cry. It happened unexpectedly, without warning, and before she knew it she was weeping – great shuddering sobs that shook her entire body and made her aches and pains flare to life again. She brought her fist up to her face and bit down on her knuckles to muffle the wretched sounds that escaped her mouth, pulled up through her windpipe with a surge of long-stifled emotion.

She was so used to being strong. So used to compartmentalizing, to ordering her mind in such a way that things no longer hurt her. But tonight's events were heavy enough to break through her walls, and memories crashed through her – from Ron's death to Bellatrix's, from Little Hangleton to Morocco, from her humiliation in the Slytherin common room to the feel of Rosier's carcass underneath her feet, from Tom Riddle's hands on her waist to his lips on her neck. And still she cried – cried and cried and cried – until the water was lukewarm and her hands and feet were shriveled like prunes. When she was finished, her eyes were swollen and her throat raw.

She ran her fingers over the scar on her arm absentmindedly. The notice-me-not charm on it was still at a decent strength, guaranteeing that no one would be able to even pay attention enough to be able to see it; but she could still feel it, still see it with her own eyes. She knew every ridge of it by heart, knew where the silver lettering became pale pink on the parts that had been cut deeper.

She covered it with her hand. _Mudblood_. Bellatrix Lestrange had made sure that she was marked, labeled, her shiny silver knife piercing her skin over and over, carving that word, that hateful fucking word, into her flesh. It had been painful, humiliating, the physical agony surpassed only by the haunting reality of what that word symbolized: that she wasn't wanted, didn't belong, that she was a freak in the wizarding world. She was forever branded with the ugly slur that had always managed to get under her skin – even now, when she was tougher, it still hurt to hear it.

Because she did belong, damn it. She absolutely did. She had more magical power in her little finger than most other people did. She was educated, bright, and had cracked open the magical world in ways that others rarely did. She had traveled the world in search of answers, in search of help, in search of anything that might give them an advantage – she had studied and invented spells of her own, had collected rare things from around the globe. She had been at the top of her class six years in a row at the best magical school in the world, and had some of the highest scores Hogwarts had ever seen.

She belonged in the wizarding world. She might not be wanted by all – but she belonged, whether they liked it or not.

She closed her eyes, letting the water wash away some of her anger, wash away the stain of blood, wash away some of the Dark magic that had gathered on her skin. She shuddered, feeling unsteady. Everything about Tom Riddle made her unsteady. Everything about this fucking timeline made her unsteady. She had thought that he, at least, would be a constant – that the predictability of his character would somehow ground her in a different time and place, give her purpose. But that wasn't at all how it was working out. He was predictable in some ways, but she also found herself surprised at some of the things she'd learned about him. And so that anchor that she'd assumed Lord Voldemort would offer was not as heavy or as stable as she'd thought. And Fawkes was more of a hindrance than a help, at times, frustratingly mysterious – there was something off about him, something unusual. He was not the same Fawkes as the one she had known as a child, or as the physical manifestation here in this timeline. Just as Tom Riddle was not the same boy he had been in her original timeline.

She felt as confused as ever. She had banked on the fact that she _knew_ things about people – knew what they were like, knew what they would do, knew about their pasts – but she was finding that not all of her information was consistent with what she was dealing with in the present. And that made fitting in here and predicting things that much harder. Some of the upper hand that she'd had concerning Tom Riddle and Dumbledore and the rest of this world had weakened in the face of the changes she'd noticed. And that meant it was far more dangerous. The less she knew about something, the less she was prepared for it. And if there was one thing Hermione Jean Granger liked to be, it was prepared. She was the witch that had packed an entire library in one bag to help defeat the Dark Lord; she was an expert at being prepared.

Sighing, she stood. She had a lot of things to worry about – but she would have to focus primarily on the problems at hand. Namely, any potential fallout from Rosier's death, and the new intimacy that she had fallen into with Tom Riddle and his Knights. She was no longer on the sidelines – she was now very much in their midst, and she had not expected it to happen so quickly, or in a manner so out of her control.

She thought about the potential life debt with Nott. She thought about the warping of Mulciber's mind. She thought about her Legilimency lessons with Avery. She thought of the way that Dolohov had observed her with utter fascination in his eyes, both in the common room and at Rosier's death. And she thought about the subtle pride that had flashed across Lestrange's expression when she'd praised him earlier in the forest.

She also thought about the complicated feelings that were developing between her and Tom. She thought of the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, the way he had come looking for her when she had been in danger. (Hermione was not used to being rescued – to being saved. It was surprisingly heady, and a dangerous sentiment to associate with someone like Tom Riddle.)

She had a foothold with each of them. Based on different events and personality traits, she had wormed her way in with every one of them in some way – even Dolohov had expressed something more than his usual cold detachment. Somehow she had started to fall into the group; had started to earn their trust.

It was, when looking at her plans, a good thing. But it felt heavy in her heart. Wrong. Despite the darkness in her soul, she did not belong with Voldemort and his gang. She did not really belong with her new group of friends, either. She belonged with Draco, and with Harry, and with the people she'd grown up with. She belonged with the people she had fought beside, the people she had risked her life for, the people who understood the person that life had shaped her into and did not judge her for it.

She did not belong here, in this timeline, at Hogwarts. She never would. She was caught somewhere in between, floating in limbo, unable to ever truly fit in.

She turned off the water, and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a green towel off of the rack (green, green, green – so much green – but she figured it was a nice break from all the red). She dried herself, and squeezed the moisture out of her hair, combing her fingers through it. She could dry it with a spell. But she didn't feel like putting in the effort. Her magic was tired, stretched thin by the power she had exerted tonight. Reaching down, she touched the opal anklet the woman had given her in Morocco. She had stored some power there for emergencies; she felt it hum under her hand. But right now there wasn't an emergency, and it was extremely difficult and time consuming to load up a stone with magic, so she would leave it be for now.

It reminded her that she had yet to give Tom the ring she had gotten for him. It would suit him. But part of her didn't want to give him anything. The benefits of possibly gaining more of his trust and, dare she say it, _affection_ – at least, whatever sort of affection someone like him could manage to conjure up; it would probably be more along the lines of a tolerable curiosity – might not be worth the risk of handing him yet another tool for him to obtain power. It was not a huge gift – not something that would provide him with a major advantage in life – but it could certainly be useful to him.

She sighed. Too many things to think about right now. She needed to rest.

The dilemma she faced after she was done drying was what to wear. She had transfigured a hand towel into a temporary toothbrush and had helped herself to Riddle's toothpaste, but she had nothing to put on. With a grimace she _Scourgified_ her ivory knickers from earlier, but her dress was ruined beyond repair and her stockings had been similarly abused, and she would rather have her fingernails pulled out than put on a bra again right now – especially considering how much her ribs hurt. Clutching her towel around her and thankful that it was large enough to provide some modesty, she cracked open the door.

He was not there. She could hear murmured voices from down the stairs in the common room – she imagined he and his goons were conferring about something evil and troublesome; she didn't much care. She knew she should stand at the door and try to eavesdrop, but she also knew Tom would never say anything of a secret nature when he knew she could be listening in, so it wasn't likely to be anything interesting – or it was something that he would simply tell her later.

Interestingly enough, she thought that maybe he trusted her just as much as his Knights; especially after one of them had betrayed him so thoroughly.

Draco would scowl at her for such a missed opportunity. But she walked over to Tom's wardrobe and found a soft undershirt that fell halfway down her thighs – it would have to do.

 _Men like seeing women wear their clothes,_ Ron had said once when she'd slept in his shirt. _Gives us a sense of ownership, I guess._

She had put her hands on her hips at the time, and had scathingly asked him in what world he would ever think he could own her. He had kissed her on the forehead, and had assured her that the ownership he spoke of was ownership of one's heart; and that it was mutual. And the wind had been knocked out of her sails as surely as if she'd been punched in the gut.

This was different, of course. This was not a mutual possession of hearts. This was much colder, much more manipulative in nature. This was part of the game she had so foolishly thought to play, and she treated it as such; she was in too deep now to balk and back out.

The fact that she enjoyed being wrapped in his smell was just a bonus – one that she didn't care to think about for too long.

She shook her hair out and lit a fire in the hearth, and then climbed back up onto his bed. This time she slid under the covers; she didn't think he'd mind (she said sarcastically to herself).

She did not think about the vulnerability of being asleep around Riddle. She had already been unconscious in front of him. He had carried her through a bloody forest, for Pete's sake. And he hadn't hurt her. He _wouldn't_ hurt her – at least, not now. Not when she still had so much to potentially offer him. And certainly not when she hadn't yet surrendered her body to him. She knew that until then, at least, she was most likely safe from him. Still, she put up her Occlumency shields as a force of habit; she suspected he hadn't quite grasped that part yet, but you could never be too careful.

As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was asleep.

* * *

oooo

Conan stared at the rug in Tom's commons, his eyes alighting on an inconsistency in the pattern.

Conan was good at patterns. Unlike people, they always made sense.

He determined that it was a stain, rusty brown in color – and belatedly realized that this must have been the place where Granger had carved Rosier's leg up with a knife. His eyes flickered away, and they landed on Riddle, who sat in the armchair in the corner with his fingers steepled, a tumbler of firewhisky sitting untouched beside him. The Head Boy's handsome face was nearly unreadable but for the small crease between his eyebrows.

"This is unprecedented," Tom said at last. His voice was calm, low, the kind of tone that made you strain to hear so that you didn't miss a single word of what was said. It was part of why Tom Riddle was the most compelling human being Conan had ever met.

"My Lord?" Thoros asked timidly. He looked nervous, and a little pale; no doubt still shocked by tonight's events.

"I am at somewhat of a loss," Tom admitted – but the way he said it made it sound anything like a vulnerability. It was said with undercurrents of bemusement and curiosity, like it was a puzzle that he hadn't quite figured out yet. "I have never had my plans so vastly interrupted before. As you know, usually I have a plan B, and C, and D – as some of you contribute a lot of thought to those plans," he said, bowing his head in a rare show of acknowledgement. "But none of my – our – planning could have accounted for this."

He was silent for a moment, and then Edmond bravely cleared his throat, his eyes still a bit pink from his tears. "Before, none of your plans factored in Granger."

Tom blinked. "No," he said in agreement. "They did not. Which leaves us with quite a bit of reorganizing to do." His nostrils flared. "We'll reconvene in the morning. We all need some rest if we're to have our wits about us. Eventually Rosier's death will come to light – Grindelwald will be wondering where his men are, and will inevitably go looking for them, and the news of the bodies in the forest will spread fast. We need to be prepared for the fallout from Rosier's disappearance and eventually the confirmation of his death. It could happen today, it could happen next week – we have no way of knowing." He stood, and they all followed suit, recognizing their Lord's dismissal. "Be here at nine. Classes don't start until tomorrow afternoon, so we'll have ample time to talk."

They nodded, all feeling the weariness that settled into their bones. They turned towards the door, and Tom's hand twitched up ever so slightly. They paused.

"Avery," Tom said lowly. "Stay for a moment."

He sighed internally, but nodded in acquiescence. He sat down on the couch, meeting Thoros' strange stare one last time before the portrait closed behind them. Tom sat back in his armchair, and finally took a sip from his drink.

"Whisky?" the older boy asked, lifting the decanter at his side and raising an eyebrow.

"Thank you, My Lord, but no," he answered. "I don't drink."

Tom smiled slyly. "Smart." He set the crystal vessel back down. "I haven't yet spoken to Granger about what happened leading up to her kidnapping, or what happened in the forest before we got there. I will do so when she wakes up. But I'm puzzled by how you came to know of her circumstances." He paused. "None of us would have known anything was amiss if you hadn't found her wand."

He swallowed. "It was strange, I will admit," he murmured lowly. "I woke up from a dream – just disjointed images of her wand laying on the floor somewhere. I didn't think anything of it, and I fell back asleep – then it woke me up again, somehow brighter in my mind and far more forceful, and there were other images, like the forest and Granger's dress and Rosier's hair. There was a sense of urgency the second time that made me so nervous I thought I was going to be sick." He breathed out heavily through his nose, remembering the anxiety and the ensuing rush of concern he'd felt when he found her wand. "That's when I got up to investigate. Despite these visions, a big part of me didn't feel as if it was real; and then I found the wand right where it had been in my dreams, and everything clicked into place." He swallowed. "And I ran back here to you. Had a close call with Pringle, but managed. You know the rest."

Tom narrowed his eyes, the blue-black pools shining with frightening intelligence as his brain processed Conan's information. "Do you have seer blood in your family tree?" he asked.

Conan shook his head. "Not that I know of." His eyes flickered up to the door to Tom's bedroom. "Seers typically deal in the future, though," he added thoughtfully. "My dreams depicted the present time."

Tom rubbed his thumbs together, looking deep in thought. "And there isn't anything else you remember about the dreams that might be helpful?"

He shook his head again. "No, My Lord," he lied.

He didn't know why he chose not to tell him about the pair of strange, shiny black eyes that had flashed through his mind; but he wanted to talk to Hermione first.

He recognized those eyes. They were eerily similar to the beady eyes of the phoenix that had led them through the trees on silent wings.

And for some reason he didn't want to mention it. So he sat and lied to his Lord's face, and wondered why he didn't feel the least bit compelled to be truthful. All he could think of was how he needed to speak to Hermione.

As he stepped through the portrait hole, he wondered when, exactly, his loyalties had shifted.

* * *

oooo

Tom swirled his firewhisky around in his tumbler, staring into it and thinking of the tawny flecks in Granger's eyes when the sunlight hit them just so.

Foolish.

There was something… _strange_ …afoot. Granted, everything about Hermione was strange, but there was something tonight that made him even more uneasy, and he was struggling to put his finger on it.

He could just ask her, of course. He doubted that she would ever give him a straight answer, but he could ask her just the same.

 _Do my secrets please you?_

Then again, she was full of surprises. She talked about the strangest things sometimes – things that made him feel like he was talking to a wizened, all-knowing, 300-year-old guru. And then she would smirk, and she instantly transformed into the powerful, vibrant witch that had stood in the clearing; the one who had brushed her magical aura against his just to tease him with the darkness she knew he wanted to claim. And then sometimes she would smile just so, or laugh with Mallery, or stare off into the distance with nostalgia written all over her face; those were the times that she entered a place that he could not quite reach, and it frustrated him. He didn't understand how one person could be so many things at once.

He thought that maybe the third part of her – the one that laughed and smiled and reminisced in carefree fondness – was the original Hermione Granger. His mind had painted a picture of her as a child and adolescent: brilliant, arrogant, and frustratingly moral, with the strange tenderness that she showed towards children and anyone she felt was being unjustly treated. He thought that maybe she had once been concerned with breaking the rules – and perhaps had done so anyway – and doing things by the book.

But she had said herself that war had changed her. Warped her. Buried the more innocent parts from her childhood under revenge and loss and violence and Dark magic. There was a certain cruelty to her; not in the sense that she was naturally a cruel person – but in the sense that being on the _receiving_ end of cruelty had given her a few sharp edges, and had hardened her against the world. He had seen that side of her tonight: the worst part of her soul, the part bitter with hatred and a deep, burning anger that Tom couldn't quite fathom.

He knew hatred. He knew anger. He'd thought, before, that they were impressive. He'd thought they'd given him purpose – motivation to succeed, to rise above, to rule. His disgust for his parentage had spurred him on for years and years and years, and when he'd finally killed his father and grandparents it had been amazingly fulfilling.

But he did not have the kind of anger that turned the _Cruciatus_ into a work of art. He did not have the kind of hatred that one needed to torture someone to death with a spell like _Probilium._ He'd always thought it unnecessary, excessive; he punished those that needed to be punished, threatened and bribed those he wished to manipulate, and killed efficiently and quickly those he no longer wanted alive. It was a cold, detached ruthlessness. He found it interesting, and it made him feel powerful, but he didn't take any significant joy from it – not like he did from learning new ways of doing things or accomplishing magic that no one had before.

With Granger, it was different. She was not cold and detached; even when she tried to be, he could see the emotion in her eyes. She had a very distinct personality that was a whirlwind of magic and power and raw, unfettered feeling. And the anger within her soul was old. Not just a few years old, because of the war; it felt instead like centuries of anger, packed into her heart until it was fit to burst.

Which didn't really make sense.

Most things about her didn't make sense. The way that her skin heated so quickly under his hand when she was aggravated didn't make sense. The way her eyes burned orange when she got magnificently angry did not make sense; it was like she couldn't control it, didn't even know she was doing it. Her bright pink wand did not make sense. The way she knew things about him that _no one else knew_ did not make sense. The way that magical creatures seemed to flock to her didn't make sense either – especially Fawkes. Why on earth would Dumbledore's familiar be loyal to Hermione Granger? Granger hadn't been here two months; Fawkes had been with Dumbledore for decades.

But it was not just Fawkes. He'd seen how some of the owls tended to hop over to her during breakfast, looking for a handout and pecking the tips of her fingers affectionately. He'd seen the way that house elves deferred to her, calling her "Missy Hermione" and beaming when asked to help her with something – which she always did with a gentle kindness and respect that had Tom sneering in disdain. He had watched her out among the thestrals, feeding them and patting them and leaning upon them for comfort, undaunted by their Deathly visages. The two vampires at Slughorn's party had seemed enchanted and amused by her, and she had approached them without a trace of fear. He had seen the centaur tracks and the arrows in the forest a few hours ago, and had been puzzled by the fact that she'd remained unscathed. He had even seen her feed the giant squid by hand, and was often seen talking to it as if it could understand her.

Perhaps it was her gentle nature. She had come to develop a reputation of tolerance and acceptance (although backed up with strength and ferocity that sometimes frightened people) and it showed through in nearly all of her interactions. He supposed it applied to animals as well – creatures that were often looked down on by humans were finally being treated with care and respect. It endeared her to anyone and anything.

It was how she had gained respect among the students. She had not only shown them kindness – she had _empowered_ them. He'd noticed the way Violet Greengrass walked with more self-possession – confident not only in her looks and family name, but now in who she was as a witch; it went deeper. He saw how Raven had brightened, had shed some of her cynical nature for the infectious hope that Hermione brought to life within the school (though the sarcasm was still going strong). He'd watched Iris Fawley slowly let go of her need for constant attention and control and work more closely with some of the students from other houses.

He had also seen how Hermione had worked diligently with Khalid Amari to teach him how to defend himself, and how to further his studies and keep up with the magical-born children. In fact, Khalid had become something of a celebrity amongst the younger years; despite his blood status, he'd gained some respect because _Hermione Granger_ had showed more than a passing interest in him, and always made sure to smile or exchange words or even high-five him in the halls.

Besides spending quality time with her group of friends, Mallery, and Tom himself, he noticed that she'd also expressed very subtle interest in students from all years – students that seemed normal enough upon first inspection. But Tom had watched the interactions more closely, and he'd noticed that each of these students had some particular skill or value. Family name, Ministry connections, a proclivity for Potions or DADA or any other specific study, special quidditch talent, exceptional reading skills – even those select few with connections outside the country and those who spoke second languages; she was kind to nearly everyone, but she paid these special students a bit more extra attention.

Tonight, perhaps, was the most surprising of all. When she'd snuck out of the common room, she'd sent Selwyn back with the cloak Tom had let her borrow. He had taken it back and smirked unkindly at Primrose.

" _How badly did she torture you?"_ he'd asked – only half jokingly.

She had shaken her head, her expression preoccupied. _"Granger wouldn't do that,"_ she'd said in a small voice; not a hint of the sycophantic behavior she usually displayed around him. _"She's really nice."_ She'd swallowed as he'd tried to wrap his head around her words. _"I should've stood up for her."_

And then she had wandered off, her sparkling fairy wings fluttering behind her, looking both lost and found at the same time.

Tom would give anything to be able to know how _that_ conversation had gone. What on earth had she _said_ to the girl?

Regardless – it was clear to Tom that Granger had a special power over people. He suspected she was able to manipulate them fairly well, but mostly she just seemed approachable and trustworthy, and people were drawn to her. It was the heady feeling that came with knowing that the most popular girl in school was also unfailingly kind, and would never snub anyone because of looks or blood or circumstances. It was why people left her company feeling exhilarated, _wanted_ , worthy of the attention of someone so obviously superior.

Eileen Prince, a small, plain second year Slytherin that had a knack for Potions and a deficiency of social skills, had been crying in the hall one day – she'd been told by an older student that she was ugly. Hermione had sat down next to her, talked to her for a few minutes, and then they'd walked outside and sat on the grass, where they promptly opened their respective Potions books and began to share notes. By the time they were finished the sun had almost gone down, and Hermione had walked a giggling Prince back to the Slytherin commons before parting from her with a cheeky wink and a smile.

Tom doubted that anyone would ever mess with Eileen Prince again.

Sighing, he stood. He felt tired, but desperately needed a shower. Stretching and groaning with the muscles that popped in his back, he plodded up the stairs, trying to clear his head so that he might get a couple of hours of sleep.

Of course, when he opened his bedroom door, he remembered the fact that the very girl who'd been plaguing his thoughts was currently _sleeping in his bed._

He stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment. Even in sleep she looked somewhat troubled – peaceful, beautiful, but also somehow melancholy. But the lines at around her eyes had smoothed out, and it made her look years younger; like a teenage schoolgirl whose biggest worry might be an upcoming Potions exam.

Of course, she was not a teenage girl. And he doubted very much that she had ever struggled on any exam, much less worried about one here and now.

No – she had bigger things to worry about.

Tom had begun to suspect that she, like him, was going to try to overhaul the system. That she was going to try to gain a foothold in the Ministry, and use the leverage to shape things to her liking.

She would have to get on board with his plans, then. He'd been working his way into this society for a very long time. He already had power over a lot of important people. They respected him, feared him, and wanted to please him. She wouldn't be able to upset that hold over such a short time – which meant she had no choice but to join him and defer to him or give up her efforts completely.

Although he wondered, if it came down to the line, who they might be more afraid of: Tom, or Hermione?

For some reason, the prospect of someone like Pollux Black being afraid of a woman tickled Tom. Amusement and appreciation for the girl asleep in his bed warred with jealousy and resentment and ire.

That was the problem. She was probably his biggest threat, next to Dumbledore and Grindelwald – but he was _utterly_ infatuated with her. He simultaneously wanted to get rid of her and yet kill anyone who tried to hurt her. And he hated that he had developed this weakness; that he wanted her so much that he was willing to cross his own boundaries and overlook his own rules.

It was incredibly dangerous. The Lord Voldemort part of him was urging caution – suggesting that the risk probably wasn't worth the reward and that it would be best to eliminate her. But the Tom Riddle part of him – the part of him that was still just a boy in school – still dominated much of his thoughts, especially pertaining to Hermione Granger.

So many decisions. So much to ponder.

He moved about his room quietly, his eyes never leaving her as he stripped his clothes off. The fire had warmed the room so much that she had tossed off some of the covers, and his eyes trailed over the bit of her midsection that was exposed by the shirt that had ridden up.

 _His_ shirt. She was wearing _his fucking shirt_ and the edge of her lacy knickers were peeking out from underneath the sheet –

He looked up to the ceiling, praying to Salazar for patience. He scrubbed his hands over his face, turned, and strode into the bathroom in his boxers.

 _Merlin,_ the woman was _ruining_ him.

* * *

oooo

 **Sorry this was so short! Don't hate me.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

" _Gods, could you just…cover up, or something?" she said irritably. She threw a pillow at him, and he laughed. "You're making my brain hurt."_

 **Next chapter will hopefully be up next week! Thank you all for your patience.**


	32. Chapter 32

**Another short chapter, but there's a bit of action this time. And Tom figures a couple of things out, which might spell trouble for Hermione – but she's a bit too preoccupied to care.**

* * *

oooo

Oh, for a muse of fire that would ascend

The brightest heaven of invention! –William Shakespeare, _Henry V_

Pain and pleasure, like light and darkness, succeed each other. –Laurence Sterne

I'm probably a bit romantic about it, but I think we humans miss having contact with fire. We need it. –Jamie Oliver

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. –Lewis Carroll, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_

* * *

oooo

Hermione woke to the sound of the squeak of the shower faucet as it turned off, and blinked her eyes open, remembering her circumstances within seconds. She sat up in the bed, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light and listening intently to the sounds of damp feet on tile and towels rustling. She held her breath when the bathroom door opened.

Riddle wore black boxers – of _course_ they were black. And of course, they were silk.

That, unfortunately for Hermione, was the extent of his clothing, and she felt her mouth moisten and had to swallow. He scrubbed at his hair with a towel, outlined by the bright light of the bathroom. It was such a _human_ thing to do that it had her snorting in surprise.

He looked over to her sharply, not having noticed she was awake. "What?" he said, his voice sharp but tinged with a bit of weariness.

She shook her head – she knew it would get under his skin and darken his mood if she were to point out just how boyish he looked. How utterly _normal_ he seemed.

Of course, the normality of the action faded a bit when she considered his appearance; because normal people didn't look like he did. Normal people hadn't been sculpted from marble and brought to life. Normal people had flaws. Physical flaws. Everybody had them – even Malfoy, who had rather odd toenails.

She looked down to Tom's feet. They were perfect, of course. The rest of him was perfect, too. He was incredibly tall, and she couldn't help but be acutely aware of the impressive breadth of his shoulders – shoulders that might've given Thorfinn Rowle a run for his money, in a different life. He was not an athlete. Not like Rosier had been, with bulging, defined muscles and the arrogant superiority that came with them. He didn't swagger around the castle showing off, and he didn't have the kind of brute strength and athleticism that sometimes boys of his age had to grow into in order to harness.

No. Everything about Tom Riddle was already harnessed. Refined. He was graceful in every single thing he did – from the way he lifted his fork to the way he performed magic to the way he sat and walked and read. He had absolute control over all of his muscles – and there _were_ muscles – and never yanked open a door too hard or took the stairs two at a time or dropped back into a chair. Every movement was intentional: every step taken with graceful deliberation, every door opened softly and slowly, every chair sunk down into with unhurried ease. He was a cool pool of water, undisturbed and isolated.

Her eyes continued to flicker over his form. He wasn't Draco, his body hardened by war and his skin rough with scars, but he was _fit._ _Very_ fit. She imagined it had something to do with how hard Wool's Orphanage had been on him over the years – like how his hands were callused and strong. His arms were impressive, his chest flat and toned. He was not overly muscular, but somehow the muscles were still _there,_ taut and hard. His torso was tight with lean muscle, the ridges of his abdomen little more than shadows but still noticeable. The way his huge shoulders tapered down so flawlessly to narrow hips was ridiculous – nature did not usually sculpt such perfection. But as he twisted to shut the bathroom door, keeping the steam out of the bedroom, his back and obliques shuddered with muscle.

And he wasn't even hairy, she thought with a sneer. His skin was gorgeously pale, but the dark hair that dusted his forearms and legs was sparse and fine, and the only hair on his torso was a thin, fine line that ran from his belly button to disappear into his boxers.

What a _fucking cunt._ What a bastard. The world was utterly barmy sometimes. How was it at all fair to the rest of the world when such charming perfection walked amongst them? How could anyone ever hope to compete?

Then again, his angelic looks did not do much to compensate for the fact that he was a devil on the inside. Nature had skipped over his heart and soul and had put the leftovers towards his looks and magic and intelligence. As envious as Hermione was, she would take having a soul over physical perfection.

"Why are you awake again?" he asked, throwing his towel into the hamper in the corner and running his fingers through his hair to put it back to rights.

Ah. So that happened naturally. Just something else to hate him for.

She shrugged. "Like I told you, Dark magic makes me restless." Her voice was rough with sleep. She blinked her eyes, and ran her hand through her ridiculous hair to try to flatten it some – it was still damp, and she was able to get it into some semblance of order as her curls started to dry and take shape.

He grunted. "I see you helped yourself to some of my clothing," he murmured. His lips quirked.

She swallowed, unable to think straight when she was so distracted by his bare form. The waistband of his boxers was just cruel – it seemed to smirk at her, teasing her.

"Y-yes," she stammered, clearing her throat. _Bloody idiot. Pull it together, you useless moron. Come on._ "I didn't think you'd mind."

He cocked his head to the side, considering. "I don't," he confirmed. There was something buried deep in his smooth, unreadable tone that spoke of surprise – like he couldn't quite fathom _how_ it was that he didn't mind. "Next time ask. I don't like people rooting through my things."

She nodded in acquiescence. "I will. Although I doubt you'd have been pleased if I'd stalked out into your commons in a towel whilst you were chatting with your goons," she said, purposefully unfolding from her cross-legged position under the sheets and leaning back, elongating her body as she stretched her muscles from head to toe. Her fingers pressed against the iron bars of his headboard and her head dropped back, stretching her neck. The sheet still covered her hips and legs, but his shirt rode up her body and she knew the sliver of skin on her abdomen would torment him.

 _You've got to tap into every part of yourself that can be used against him,_ Draco had said. _Because when it comes to sheer power, magical and physical, he has the upper hand._

And he _was_ more powerful than she. By a good margin. Fawkes' magic had given her something new, another source of fuel to work with – but the sheer amount of power that Tom Riddle was hiding behind his "stellar student" façade was mind-blowing. In the clearing, when he'd taken her by the throat, she'd been both afraid and pleased; afraid because his magical aura had almost entirely suffocated hers, and pleased because she finally got to _feel_ it. She'd gotten a brief flash of it in Tom's commons on the night of Slughorn's party, when he was throwing her attack off. But what she'd felt in the forest tonight had been intentionally focused on her, and he had not held back.

It was a tricky game – being independent and powerful enough to give him some push back, and submitting to him just enough that he wouldn't get fed up and just kill her where she stood because she was too much trouble.

 _You're something for him to conquer, so to speak._

 _Push and pull, Hermione. Keep him occupied with you._

Yes; a very tricky game, indeed.

She arched her back in a way that would have his control dangle by a thread, and groaned in relief as her spine popped. Then she relaxed once more, and turned over onto her side to face him, the sheet still hanging tantalizingly from the curve of her hip and his shirt bunched up just far enough that her belly button peeked out.

When she finally looked up at him, blinking in a sleepy way that indicated that _none_ of that manipulation was intentional, she met his eyes. Draco had said there was something compelling about her eyes, hadn't he? And that eye contact was important.

His black stare was hot, and his jaw ticked as his nostrils flared. It was the look that men got when they struggled for control of any kind, and angry at their failure to contain it. Riddle looked so aroused that he was furious, and she noticed the outline of his erection when he stalked into the bathroom and brushed his teeth angrily. She saw him scrub his hands over his face with some cold water in a very non-Voldemort kind of way.

When he was finished, he came back into the room – gracefully, sensuously, predatorily – and leaned against the wall at the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms, and she was once again distracted by the way it made his triceps look. His face was back to its cool mask, and she noticed that the tent in his boxers had become slightly smaller. She swallowed.

"We need to talk about a few things," he said lowly, narrowing his eyes. His voice was low and silky. Honey laced with poison.

"Talk about what?" she said with a nervous flutter of her heart.

"About China. About Mallery. About Dumbledore and Fawkes. And about your plans for the future," he said sharply.

She rolled her eyes. "You know I'm only willing to talk about so much – "His pectoral muscle twitched, and she grimaced. "Gods, could you just…cover up, or something?" she said irritably. She threw a pillow at him, and he laughed. "You're making my brain hurt."

He grinned, the heavy threat in his eyes lightening with humor. "Are you feeling exposed?" he said smartly, repeating her words from earlier.

She glared. "Cute," she said sarcastically. "But if you want any semblance of coherence during this conversation, you'll do as I ask."

His grin spread even wider, and she rolled her eyes as heat flushed her cheeks. Finally he acquiesced, and walked to the dresser to retrieve a pair of grey cotton pants and a black undershirt that made his biceps look fucking _edible._

She hated him.

He leaned against the dresser, less than five feet away from the edge of the bed she was lying in. He opened his mouth to speak.

And was abruptly interrupted.

Hermione jolted and summoned her wand wordlessly as something large hit the window. Tom snatched his wand from the top of the dresser in a similar manner, and leveled it at the window before squinting in bemusement and lowering it. She did the same.

"What in Merlin's name…" Hermione went to get out of the bed, but Tom held up a hand to stop her.

He walked over to where a creature sat perched on the window ledge, flapping its wings and looking impatient.

"It's…a _bat_ ," he said curiously. "And it's carrying a letter."

Hermione narrowed her eyes as Tom cautiously opened the window, stepping back as a bat the size of a raven hopped through, a small square envelope wrapped around its neck. Tom went to remove it, and the bat nipped at his fingers, drawing blood. Tom hissed and pulled his hand back, glaring at the little beast.

"It seems to be for you," Tom said with a sneer. "Smart bat."

The bat turned its back to Tom and stared at Hermione expectantly from its spot on the window seat with beady black eyes. She raised an eyebrow, but peeled the sheets back from her legs and swung them over the side, noticing how Tom's eyes flickered to the newly exposed skin. If it affected him in any way, he did not let on.

She stood and stepped towards the bat, holding out her hand to test it. It seemed amenable to her presence, pressing its mousy little snout to the tips of her fingers and sniffling in a way that made her giggle. Tom rolled his eyes.

"Aren't you sweet," she cooed, scratching the little creature under the chin. The bat bobbed its head in what might be construed as agreement, and she grinned. "What do you have for me?" She carefully untied the letter from his neck, stepping back so that Tom wouldn't be able to see when she opened it.

 _Dearest Hermione,_

 _Meet us at the Hog's Head at midnight tomorrow with what we agreed upon. Feel free to bring that delicious blond friend of yours – Pyotr and I are simply dying to meet him._

 _Burn this after you read it. It wouldn't do to have any uninvited guests try to join the party._

 _Much love,_

 _Katarina_

 _P.S. Dmitri isn't very fond of owl treats, but he loves chocolate. Do be a dear and oblige him – he's flown a very long way._

Hermione snorted in amusement, and then let the letter burn to ash in her hand. She looked to Tom. "Do you have any chocolate?"

He looked puzzled and more than a bit frustrated that she had so quickly burned the letter, but opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a box of Honeyduke's chocolates – which were nestled next to several cartons of candied pineapple. She looked at them pointedly and smirked, and he shrugged.

Dmitri fluttered his wings in anticipation, and Hermione set the little box of chocolates in front of him. He gobbled up two in quick succession, and then bumped the back of Hermione's hand with his nose and shuffled back over to the window, where he immediately took off and disappeared into the night.

"What on earth was that?" Tom inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Hermione shrugged. "A bat," she answered vaguely. "His name is Dmitri. Lovely fellow."

Tom narrowed his eyes and flared his nostrils in exasperation. "I can guess who sent it."

She shrugged, fluttering her eyelashes teasingly. "You can guess all you like."

Tom bared his teeth at her in a shark-like smile. "The vampires at Slughorn's party," he drawled. "You spoke with them at length."

Hermione graced him with a mild, patronizing smile that she knew he would hate. "I got to know them a bit, yes," she said ambiguously. "I was curious as to how they knew Slughorn. We exchanged pleasantries. Vampires are vastly misunderstood creatures," she continued, slipping into the boring professor persona that used to drive Harry and Ron crazy. "Very powerful, and very interesting. And secretive, too. It was nice to speak to them so casually."

"I would ask you more, but I know by now that you are being purposefully vague and that pressing you on the matter will get me nowhere," he said tightly, his jaw clenching. "However, it brings me to one of the questions I would ask you."

"Ask away," she said blithely, waving her wand and shutting the window to keep the cold at bay. She sat down in the armchair in the corner, crossing her legs so that his shirt rode up her thighs, just short of revealing her knickers. He very pointedly kept his eyes on her face, and she smiled knowingly, running her fingers over her wand in a teasing caress.

"The bird," he began, his voice slow and cautious. "I want to know how, exactly, you came to gain his allegiance."

"Fawkes?" Hermione clarified needlessly. "We simply have an affinity for one another. Kindred spirits, if you will," she continued, treading dangerously close to a subject she was not certain she was yet ready to reveal. "I'm not sure why he was drawn to me upon my arrival here. He can't exactly speak, you know." She shrugged. "He cares for me. Shadows me, sometimes, to make sure I'm safe. Or something." She looked up at him and met his eyes. "Do you have anything to drink?" she asked.

His nostrils flared. "Blishen's and elf wine," he bit out impatiently.

"Some wine would be lovely," she said sweetly, smiling at him. "If you would be so kind as to share."

He made an irritated noise in his throat, and wordlessly summoned a bottle from the trunk at the foot of his bed. Conjuring a glass, he poured some of the sweet red wine for her to sip, his fingers brushing against hers as he handed it to her. After a moment's hesitation, he poured himself a glass as well.

"And the thestrals?" he said, his eyes narrowed mistrustfully. She swallowed. He did not believe her.

Then again, had she really expected him to? Tom Riddle was _smart._ Smarter than anyone else she knew save herself and Dumbledore.

"What about them?" she said, waving her hand in dismissal. "Thestrals are kind, gentle creatures. They respond positively to anyone who brings them meat and treats them nicely. I don't hold any special power over them."

"And what about the vampires?" he said, his voice gaining volume. "They seemed rather taken with you. And the centaur in the forest – why did he spare you? The giant squid seeks you out even when you don't have any toast to feed him. Owls coo at you adoringly whenever you're near. The bat just now was positively _enamored_ of you. House elves jump to do your bidding – particularly one named Muffin, whom my followers have seen you conversing with several times." He sneered. "You're hiding something. Something strange. Don't play games with me, Hermione," he said, his tone silky and unkind.

"Someone warned me that you like to play games," she said casually. She smiled, continuing to run her fingers over her perfect wand, which glinted red in the firelight. "But hunting is not a game," she purred lowly. "In a game, both sides should know they're playing."

She saw his eyes glisten with something unreadable. Fear? Anticipation? Anxiety? Arousal? She couldn't be sure. Either way, she enjoyed the emotion.

"You're right," he murmured smoothly. "Your delusion, however, is thinking that _you_ are the hunter."

She grinned. "Oh?" she countered coyly, amused by their banter and thrumming with excitement. She stood slowly, and shuddered in delight when he shifted, subconsciously leaning imperceptibly away from her. "Am I not?" She stalked towards him, and twirled her wand in her hand before setting it on the bed for him to see. She met his eyes and downed the remainder of her wine before setting the glass on his desk. Confidence surged within her, fueled by Fawkes' curiosity and conviction. She felt his fire burn deep within her chest, felt it flush through her veins, warming her more thoroughly than any bonfire could.

When she reached him, she boldly set her hands on his stomach, walking her fingers downwards to teasingly fiddle with the hem of his shirt before sliding them underneath. She scraped her fingernails over his abdominal muscles, marveling in the warmth of his skin. How could someone so _cold_ emanate such heat?

He glared at her with frigid eyes as his stomach jumped under her hands. She slid them up farther until the tips of her middle fingers reached his nipples, and then stood up on her tiptoes and scraped his chin with her teeth.

He snapped. Lightning quick, he yanked himself away from her and grabbed her freed wrists, walking her backwards and slamming her into his desk. He pinned her hands to the mahogany so strongly that she whimpered in pain, feeling an unexpected stab of arousal in her abdomen.

He froze, his face inches away from hers, his eyes still bitterly cold and full of a strange sort of desire that reeked of malice. He stared down into her eyes, his chest heaving inches away from hers.

He cocked his head ever so slightly, and narrowed his eyes, curiosity bleeding into the lust and cruelty that burned coolly in their black depths. Scanning her face, he dug his nails into the backs of her hands, and she let out a shuddering breath, her body quivering of its own accord.

He hummed. "Do you like it when it hurts, Hermione?" he murmured, hovering his lips just above hers. Her breath hitched as his gripped tightened further, and a sinister, victorious grin broke across his face as his eyes glittered with triumph. He moved forward, pressing his body into hers, rubbing the rigid line of his cock against her pubic bone torturously slow, clipping her clit so briefly she would have thought she'd imagined it but for the bolt of pleasure that flashed through her body. A choked noise of surprise escaped her mouth, and he laughed lowly, scraping his teeth long her jaw in a mimic of her earlier motion before nipping the delicate skin of her neck harshly. She hissed in pain.

He chuckled darkly. "Who knew?" he said lowly, his tone chilling and wicked. "Who knew that the illustrious Hermione Granger would like it rough?"

 _She_ hadn't. She hadn't known. She'd never _had_ it rough. The pleasure that snapped along her nerve endings in response to the pain he was inflicting was wholly unexpected; and unwanted. How dare he make her _like_ pain? She wasn't that kind of girl. She _wasn't._ She wasn't, she wasn't, she wasn't –

She breathed out heavily through her nostrils, closing her eyes and whining like a bitch in heat when he ground himself against her once more. Liquid fire surged through her channel to pool in her knickers, soaking them in seconds. She arched into him, her body acting of its own accord until her pebbled nipples pressed up against his chest, separated only by the thin, flimsy fabric of their shirts. His nails dug even harder into her skin, and she released a strangled moan –

She _was._

Her eyes fluttered open and met his briefly before sliding closed again when his lips pressed against hers, slowly, sensuously, insistently. She opened for him immediately, her body thrumming with raging desire that swept fast and furious through her bloodstream, causing her to groan mindlessly as his tongue rasped across hers and his teeth nipped punishingly at her bottom lip.

She jerked in surprise when one of his hands released its grip on her wrist to slip down to her sex. Her heart was racing and her body tingled and she hissed against his lips as he grazed his thumb over the front of her knickers.

She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't prepared. She thought that maybe she should tell him to stop, pull away and put distance between them before she took leave of her sanity –

But no. Her mind became hazy with need, and she was stuck, unable to think or do anything but let her body rule her actions.

Tom inhaled sharply when he felt the extent of her desire for him, his fingers slipping beneath her panties and pushing them to the side to slide along her slit. She was making a mess on her thighs with how wet she was for him, and he uttered a sharp "fuck" against her lips when his hand met hairless skin. He pulled his head back from hers, his eyes heavy with lust. The cool control he'd had less than a minute ago was shattered, and he let go of her second hand to grip the back of her neck as he worked his middle finger into her tight sheath.

She keened, one hand flying to the bicep of the arm that held her neck in a vise-like grip as the other continued to clutch the edge of the desk, trying to anchor her body as pleasure threatened to consume her. He huffed when her pussy clenched around him, unused to such intrusion and tight from little use. Her legs shook when he withdrew, and then he pressed his lips to hers once more and swallowed her moan when he added his pointer finger and plunged back in, sinking the two long digits knuckle deep and pulsing them against her inner wall.

He hissed when she dug her nails deep into his bicep, desperately clinging to any semblance of sanity as he worked her over with just one hand, his thumb swiping across her clit as he continued to pump his fingers into her cunt in a steady, unhurried pace. She panted in frustration, biting down harshly on his bottom lip to punish him for his teasing. He chuckled in response, running his own tongue across the sore flesh to soothe it before leaning down and drawing the fair skin of her neck into his mouth, nipping at it with his teeth before sucking it between his lips and drawing the blood to the surface, bruising her.

She whimpered and ground her hips against his ministrations, riding his fingers as he continued to torment her and work her towards an orgasm. She could feel it building, could feel her body surge towards completion at a surprising speed. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed with ecstasy, and he swirled his thumb around the slick pearl at the top of her slit as his fingers vibrated inside of her.

When she came, she flew apart, her legs shaking unsteadily as the pressure in her womb exploded in an earth-shattering orgasm that had spots dancing behind her eyelids. The noise that came out of her mouth was so unfamiliar she hardly recognized it as coming from her. She heard him curse again, his eyes glued to her face in rapture as she clenched around him and came undone under his hands.

He released her neck, and her head dropped back bonelessly, her eyes snapping open to stare at the ceiling as she struggled to catch her breath.

She jerked when she felt his fingers slip out of her, and her head snapped upright when she felt his large hands dip underneath her shirt to slide beneath the lace waistband of her knickers. With an easy flick of his fingers he sent them fluttering to the ground, and then bunched the hem of her shirt in his hands and dropped to his knees in front of her to swipe his tongue along her throbbing slit before she could even think about protesting.

She sucked in a breath, her hand slapping down on the desk top as her cunt ached with renewed need even as her clit stung, tender after her orgasm. "What – "

She choked on her words as he grasped her ankle and lifted it out of the circle of her discarded panties and pushed it to the side so that she was spread wide in front of him, her pussy on full display as he held her shirt up against her stomach and out of his way. He studied her for a moment, taking in the tiny triangle of hair above her slit as his eyes glittered with approval. Then he leaned forward and licked her clit with the flat of his tongue, the feather-light pressure making her quiver. She looked away as his eyes flickered up to meet hers, unable to handle the intensity of his dark stare.

Her leg twitched when he brought the hand on her ankle up to run a finger between her nether lips, before gently sliding his ring finger in to the first knuckle whilst closing his lips around her clit and sucking in a way that had her body singing in pleasure. Her cunt was raw and sore from her first orgasm, but he seemed to expect this, and he licked and sucked and fingered her slowly and deliberately until she was squirming and whining in his arms.

"You're beautiful like this," he murmured against her, the hand on her shirt dropping to her thigh to steady her as her balance wavered. Her hand came down of its own accord to pull the fabric back up. She fisted the other in his damp, silky hair and found brief satisfaction in the way he shuddered under her touch.

"Tom," she breathed, her voice husky with desire. "Please."

He smirked at her, pulling his finger out of her and bringing both of his hands to her thighs to spread her even wider, opening her up to his wicked tongue. She let out a strangled moan and clutched his hair tighter, her nails scraping against his scalp in silent approval.

"Please," she repeated a minute later, chasing her orgasm but unable to reach it.

He hummed against her clit, and she trembled. "Answer me one question."

She groaned in frustration. "Fine." Her hips jerked when he dipped his tongue briefly into her sex before sliding back around and lapping again at her sensitive nub.

"Are you human?"

She froze, and he pulled his mouth away to stare up at her with penetrating, unreadable eyes. She panted, her body pulsing with the anticipation of her climax.

"Yes," she responded truthfully.

He narrowed his eyes, and gave her a single pass of his tongue, torturing her with the prospect of completion but not obliging. "You're lying."

She shook her head impatiently. "I'm not." She paused, and slid her hand through his hair. "Perhaps you aren't asking the right question."

He exhaled, his nostrils flaring, before he leaned forward and once again took her clit into his mouth. She quivered, her legs beginning to shake again as pleasure engulfed her senses, Fawkes' magic rippling underneath her skin like lava.

"Are you _only_ human?" he asked suddenly, pausing for only a moment before continuing his ministrations.

She only smirked in response, and then she arched her back as her orgasm came out of nowhere and slammed into her like a train, sending her up onto her toes as she leaned back into the desk, her juices gushing out onto his tongue as he lapped at her slit and thighs, sighing in pleasure.

They both froze for a moment, breathing hard, before she swallowed and spoke. "That, Mister Riddle," she said, panting, "is the right question."

His smile was slow and sinful.

oooo

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 **Ta da! Tell me what you think! You guys are the best.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	33. Chapter 33

**Hello everyone!**

 **First of all, I'd like to apologize to everyone for keeping you waiting so long. Unfortunately, my updates will be far less frequent than they used to be. I'm sorry for that, but it can't be helped at this point in time.**

 **That being said, I'd like to make myself very clear. I got a very bitter review on this fic** _ **,**_ **and I'd like to address the "guest's" comment in general. Here goes:** _ **PLEASE**_ **don't presume to be irritated with me when I don't update for a while. Don't assume that I have "abandoned" my story – none of my stories will ever be abandoned. I've already told you that. However, I know this may come as a shock to some of you, but I** _ **do**_ **in fact have a life. It consists of 60% work, 39% sleep, and 1% "other." Guess which category FanFiction falls into! Yeah – the last one. You see, writers on FanFiction don't actually get** _ **PAID**_ **to write, and therefore it comes second to our jobs. But little comments like** _ **"**_ _ **Guys stop asking for updates because she's never updating again. This story is obv abandoned. Don't waste your time." Those**_ **kinds of comments are made by negative, cowardly, self-absorbed** _ **jerks**_ **that can just go shove their snobbish attitudes right up their ass. Comments like the one I just described are a huge deterrent to keep writing. One of my favorite authors on this site took a hiatus a few months ago because she was sick and tired of reviewers telling her how to write and what to do. Do** _ **NOT**_ **presume that you are important enough to tell someone else how they should write. Like I've said before, if you don't like someone else's work, GO WRITE YOUR OWN SHIT.**

 **I don't mind people asking me to update. It warms my heart to know that people appreciate my story and it makes for good encouragement. But leave the attitude out of it, guys. You have no idea what might be happening in someone's life, and how quickly an insensitive comment can upset that person. Kind, constructive criticism is welcome, praise is welcome, asking for updates or other information is welcome, genuine questioning to clarify something is welcome – rudeness is** _ **not**_ **welcome.**

 **All right. On to other things.**

 **I got a comment that I thought was really cool, from a guest reviewer. She/he said,** _ **"Love the description of Hermione's and Tom's powers, reminds me of a 'dirty thunderstorm' (lightning storm caused by an exploding volcano) and the 'deep sea' (somewhere between Cthulhu and the Mariana Trench) respectively. So now every time I envision them using their powers I see two forces of nature, each creation and destruction in their own rights, vicious and awe-inspiring, going toe-to-toe. It's awesome."**_ **I just thought I'd share that, because I thought it was a really accurate description. I also want to warn said reviewer that I might unabashedly steal that analogy from them. If they would send me a name, I would be proud to officially recognize that person if and when I** _ **do**_ **happen to use their amazing metaphor.**

 **I also got another review that touched my heart from a brand new mother with the penname "Clapham." I just want to let her know that I have been thinking about her and what she's going through. Taking time out of her life to review, especially considering her situation, really honors me. It's wonderful to think I can bring someone a little joy and provide them with an escape through my story. In fact, it was her review that really pushed me to finish this chapter and post it.**

 **Thank you all for your continued interest and support. I'm not sure what my update schedule will look like from here on out, but I promise you, this story is not abandoned. Sometimes I might get inspired to write another story. Sometimes I'm just really busy. And sometimes I am so depressed the thought of sitting down at my computer and trying to come up with good prose is just exhausting. But the only reason I would ever abandon a story is if something happened to me. Like, I don't know,** _ **death.**_ **Until then, however, you're stuck with me – warts and all.**

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oooo

"Veela is the only thing that makes sense. Nothing else is possible. Centaurs and merpeople can't breed with humans. Neither can vampires. Werewolf children aren't born with any of their parents' traits, unless conceived by two fully-shifted weres under a full moon."

Tom watched her as she leaned back against the pillows, dropping her head back and pretending to snore. He paced over to the bed and clapped a hand down on her ankle irritably as annoyance bubbled below the surface of his skin. "This isn't amusing."

"Oh, but it is," she said tiredly, grinning and cracking her eyes open to look at him. "I'm very much enjoying myself." She turned over onto her side, and his hand ran up her leg to squeeze her thigh. "Why don't you just relax and think about it later?" she suggested, reaching a hand out to snap the waistband of his sweatpants. His erection was still painfully obvious, but he'd been so focused on the subject at hand that he'd ignored his discomfort to play at guessing games.

He imagined, strangely, that she might understand. That if it came down to choosing between sex or figuring out a puzzle, she would get so distracted with the puzzle that all thoughts of sex would fly out the window, regardless of how her body felt.

They were alike in many ways.

"Why don't you just tell me the truth?" he countered harshly, his eyes hard and unrelenting. He'd never been so desperate for answers in his entire life, and it was making him crazy, his mind whirring to come up with the answers he was so determined to find, spurred on by the frantic _tap-tap-tap_ of the rain that had started to pelt against the window.

"Because," she said with a long-suffering sigh that made him stiffen. "It's _my_ life we're talking about. Mine. Not yours." She sat up, her legs dangling over the side of the bed and her ankles hooking around his calves. She cocked her head, and he found himself trapped in her mahogany and whisky stare, remembering the way her eyes had flashed golden orange when she'd come undone under his hands and mouth. "I'll tell you what," she hedged. "You spill all of _your_ secrets, and I'll do the same."

He blinked. "You already know all of my secrets," he said impatiently. A lie, of course, but there were things that she couldn't know about – that _no one_ could know about.

She sniggered mockingly. "We both know that's not true," she said dismissively. "So as long as you have your secrets, I'll continue to have mine. My submission to you in the forest earlier was partly genuine, but primarily it was for the sake of your little minions. Don't go getting ahead of yourself. You don't command me. _Ever."_

"Really?" he said quietly. He leaned forward, caging her in with his hands and bumping her nose with his. He could still taste her essence on his tongue, tangy and floral and _hot._ She was always so _hot._

"Really," she said, her voice firm but just a little unsteady. He smirked and brushed his lips against hers, and she trembled.

"I generally tend to pick and choose my battles," he said softly, pulling away from her slightly as his cock strained against his boxers. "We'll come back to this one another time."

She grinned, triumph in her eyes. He didn't like it. "Ah, yes," she purred slowly. "The great Tom Riddle wouldn't dare pick a fight that he couldn't win." She breathed out heavily through her nostrils, and her hands came up to push him away so that he was standing upright. Her fingers slid down to play along his thighs, inches from where his manhood _begged_ for her attention.

"You can't distract me, Hermione," he said, hating the way his hands shook in anticipation.

"Want to bet?" she countered coyly. Her hand shifted ever so slightly –

Suddenly something frigid passed through his body, and his erection began to soften instantly, as if it had been doused with ice water. Hermione recoiled, and their eyes flickered over to the spectral figure that had just brushed past him to hover over the armchair.

"Hermione," the dragon said, its voice urgent. It said nothing else – just vanished into the air like white smoke.

She stood up, her expression morphing into one of concern that bordered on panic. She immediately went over to her shoes and transfigured them into a pair of old sneakers before slipping them on her feet, heedless of the lack of socks.

Or pants, he realized. She still wore only his shirt and her underwear. To his great irritation, she grabbed his robe from the hook on his wardrobe door and shrugged it on.

"What – "

"Sorry," she interrupted distractedly. "I've got to go." She snatched up her wand from the desk and moved towards the door, and then turned back. "Erm – I'll be back. Later. Sometime." She swallowed. "My apologies," she said formally. "Excuse me."

"I have _questions,_ Hermione – you can't just _walk away – "_

"You're a smart man, Riddle," she snapped impatiently. "Figure it out. I'm not going to lead you by the hand – you're not a child."

And then she was gone, and he was cursing and bursting out of his room behind her, descending his stairs as she made a mad dash for the portrait door.

"Hermione," he said commandingly as she slipped through the door. He was seconds behind her. "Granger!"

But she was gone. He burst out into the hallway to find it empty and silent. He cursed into the void, and then went back into his common room and slammed the door behind him.

He looked down at his half hard erection.

 _Bitch._

* * *

oooo

Hermione rushed down the hall under the invisibility cloak, waiting to pull it off until she got to the secret passageway near the Great Hall in which she and Draco had agreed to meet if there was a reason they couldn't tell each other exactly where they were. Draco would have known she was with somebody – whether it was the girls in her dorm or Riddle – and so hadn't wanted to risk saying anything in his patronus.

She ducked under the tapestry, and sighed in relief when she came face to face with her best friend. He looked pale.

"What's wrong?" she whispered harshly.

"Come with me," he commanded softly. "There's something you need to see."

She nodded jerkily, and they both slipped under Harry's cloak before ducking under the tapestry and stepping out into the hall. Draco grabbed her hand, and she squeezed it in silent camaraderie as they snuck outside through the front doors. Hermione cast a quick _Impervius_ charm on the cloak to keep them dry as rain poured down from the heavens.

Hermione felt a brief moment of panic: what if this had something to do with Rosier? What if Draco had somehow found his remains? Hermione had planned all along to tell him about Gavin's death – but hadn't wanted to tell him exactly _how_ she had killed the bastard. If Malfoy saw the sticky pile of blood and flesh and bones, he would know without a doubt which spell was responsible. And there would be no end to his anger and the subsequent lectures that would follow.

She sighed in relief when he turned in the opposite direction, headed towards Hagrid's hut (well, currently it was unoccupied, as Ogg lived in the castle, but it would be Hagrid's in the spring). Slipping through the pumpkin patch, they disappeared into the trees.

After they went deeper into the forest, Draco shed the cloak and Hermione shrunk it and put it in her pocket, keeping it easily accessible in case they discovered they weren't alone. Hermione blinked, clutching Tom's robe tighter around her before transfiguring a rock into an umbrella to hold over her head.

"What are you wearing?" Malfoy said, narrowing his eyes and looking askance at her as they continued to walk. He didn't seem to mind the rain that flattened his hair to his head.

"Erm…" She swallowed and cast her eyes to the ground, stepping daintily over a root. "There was an…incident. Earlier tonight, after you went to bed. I'll tell you about it later. But it ended with me in Tom's rooms. I took a shower, and I didn't have anything else to wear, so I borrowed a shirt. And his robe." She squirmed as she felt his eyes bore heavily into the side of her head. "We didn't sleep together, just so you know."

Draco's jaw tightened, and his eyes flicked down to the tender skin of her neck, no doubt bruising from both Tom's hands in the forest and his lips in his bedroom. "But you weren't entirely chaste." It was not a question.

Her nostrils flared. "No," she said quietly.

He sighed. "Just remember, you can't give into him right away. You have to draw it out. Give yourself time. You can't just drop your knickers the first time he tries to get you in his bed. You have to resist."

Irritation nipped at her brain. "Oh sure," she said acerbically. "The next time the female equivalent of Tom Riddle intends on seducing you, let me know how your _resistance_ goes."

He snorted in amusement. "Touché," he murmured, his eyes full of reluctant understanding.

"So why on earth did you come out here tonight?" she said, frowning in consternation. "It's the full moon. You know better."

Draco shrugged. "I wasn't thinking. I couldn't sleep, and decided to walk and clear my head. Instead, I found another complication."

"Awesome," she said dryly. "I love complications. The more the better."

Suddenly they came upon a clearing, and Draco stopped. She stood next to him. She shivered, and looked at her friend. "Malfoy?"

"Just wait," he said calmly. "Give it a second."

Suddenly there was a flash of bluish light. Hermione's eyes widened, staring as something truly bizarre unfolded in front of her.

She blinked. The image of a turquoise car burst into being between two trees, revving its engine and jumping over a pile of roots to land hard on the lower ground. Hermione jolted with fear when she saw a good-sized acromantula clinging to its roof, and Draco grabbed her elbow to steady her. Then the car fishtailed, and sped towards them, only to turn before it hit them. The acromantula flew off the roof and disappeared with a flash of light. Then the car vanished into thin air.

They were both silent for a moment. "Draco," she finally said, struggling to remain calm. "What the _fuck?"_

His lips curled into a bitter smile. "A hologram," he said quietly. "They're just images. Not solid. They'll go right through you, if you stand in the way."

She swallowed, her mind racing. "That car…"

"Arthur Weasley's, yes," he confirmed. "1967 Ford Anglia. Arthur told me all about it." He cleared his throat. "Looks like our little trip through space-time is still causing mayhem. I know we were both hoping it would end with Rowle and Macnair, but I'm afraid we just aren't that lucky."

"Of course we aren't," Hermione said darkly. She jumped as the car and the acromantula once again appeared with a flash, and the sequence replayed itself, the holograms shimmering in the rain. "It plays on a loop?"

Her blond companion nodded. "I stood here and just watched it for nearly a half hour before I finally called you. It plays every 52 seconds."

"But wait," she said. "This car was collected by the Hogwarts staff in 1994, disabled and put in the Room of Hidden Things. We saw it there when we got the diadem." She looked at him. "Don't you remember? You were there, after all."

He raised an eyebrow. "I was a little preoccupied with the task of trying not to burn to death."

She rolled her eyes. "Drama queen," she mumbled. "Well, it was lying on its back. I asked Minerva about it later, and she confirmed that she, Sinistra and Flitwick had found it out near the quidditch pitch, suffering under the car equivalent of dementia. So they basically put it out of its misery, disabling it and putting it in the Room of Requirement." She looked at Draco, and bit her lip. "It would have burned up with the rest of what was in the Room."

"You're saying that this loop is depicting the car from a time _before_ ours?" Draco asked to clarify. "That it didn't come from 2002, where we and Rowle and Macnair came from?"

She nodded. "It would have to be before 1995, while it was still living in the forest." She paused. "It might even be from a different timeline than the one we came from. Maybe, maybe not."

Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "I suppose we need to tell Dumbledore?"

"We can do it tomorrow," she said. "It's not urgent. It doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon. We can bring him out later. For now…let's hide it. Help me put up wards."

Draco nodded, and they set to work warding the area, raising their wands and murmuring in low voices. It reminded Hermione vividly of warding the tent that she, Harry and Ron had lived in for those long, miserable months they'd spent looking for horcruxes.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, now.

After ten minutes, they double-checked their spells and then stowed their wands. Hermione wordlessly pulled out the invisibility cloak again. She ran her hands over the silky fabric, and then resized the third Hallow and threw it over their heads.

On their trek back, Hermione reluctantly told him about what had happened earlier that night – both in the Slytherin common room and in the forest with Tom and his Knights. She told him about Druella's prank, and about her tentative connection with Primrose Selwyn. She told him about her conversation with Violet and Raven. She told him an altered version of what had happened in the forest, from the fireflowers to the centaur to Tom's arrival and the death of his least favorite minion. She claimed she used the _Sanguinulcus_ spell, and Draco seemed to buy the lie she told him.

She felt wretched. She had never lied to Draco, except for the lie about Ron's, Ginny's, Fleur's and Seamus' deaths. She didn't make a habit of fibbing to her closest confidant, and it felt so wrong. But telling him about the _Probilium_ curse would be worse; so she bit out the words with as much truth as possible.

Then she told him about her conversation with Riddle after she awoke in his bed. She told him about her musings that the monster they knew might not be the same this time around – about the insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge that she had continually been able to exploit with the young Lord Voldemort. He didn't seem convinced, but he listened to her nonetheless.

She also told him about Katarina's letter, and he agreed to come to the meeting tomorrow night.

And lastly, she told him about how Riddle had figured out that she was not all human.

He was not pleased.

She listened to him rant and rave and lecture, taking his words with a grain of salt. She grimaced at all the _"you bloody idiot"_ s and _"are you fucking insane"_ s that rolled off his tongue, but eventually he calmed down and they discussed their next move.

Finally, they parted ways, Draco slipping back to his quarters and Hermione tiptoeing back down to the Head Boy's dorm.

She knocked timidly on the door as a courtesy before she whispered the password _tenebris,_ and then stepped through the portrait door as it swung open. The assault was immediate.

" _Where_ have you been?"

Hermione curled her lip and pried Tom's viselike grip from her arm. "Alright, _Mum,"_ she said acerbically, rolling her eyes and using her annoyance to chase away her body's reaction to his presence. "Something came up, if you must know. It's private. So kindly take your judgment and reprimands elsewhere."

His nostrils flared. "We were in the middle of a conversation."

She narrowed her eyes. The adrenaline from earlier had officially worn off, and the dark power from the _Probilium_ she'd cast was ebbing, leaving her hollowed out – like a drum of sulfuric acid that had been tipped over and drained, but where residue still remained, slowly eating through its container. So now the exhaustion was really starting to take root, and she felt her patience crack as her eyelids became heavy and her head started to hurt.

"I know this may come as a shock, but the world does not revolve around you," she sneered hatefully. "I had something to take care of, and it didn't concern you. And if I constantly have to remind you that I don't _belong_ to you, Tom, this is going to get tiresome _very_ quickly."

His dark eyes glittered with malice, and she resisted the urge to shudder as his magical aura seeped into the space around her. It was immense, like the weight of the deepest, darkest ocean, heavy and black and non-survivable. Still, she stood her ground, letting it encircle her and bear down on her. She didn't have the strength to fight it, or the energy to push her own magic out to meet it. And raging against it would get her nowhere.

It was like driving a car around a track. When the driver got to the curve, the instinct was to hit the brakes. But it was best to accelerate through the turn – it would keep you from flipping or losing control. It was simple physics. It was like that with Tom Riddle. Her best option was to keep her foot on the gas and let his momentum carry her away. Much like swimming against a riptide, it would be stupid to think she could struggle against a power so overwhelming.

She closed her eyes. "I'm not sure what you think your show of magical strength is going to accomplish, but I'm very, very tired," she said wearily. She opened her eyes. He would not see her uneasy; her feathers weren't so easily ruffled. "I'm very aware that you are more powerful than me. We've established that already. It's time to move on. I'm not asking you to trust me – just as you know it would be silly for you to ask _me_ to trust _you._ But I _do_ expect you to respect that my existence doesn't revolve around yours." She blinked. "Now, if you can't accept that, then I'll just be on my way. I'll go back to my dorm, or to Draco's. But if you can bring yourself to be enough of an adult that you agree to my very _simple_ terms, then I would very much like to go crawl into your bed and sleep for a few hours. Because I'm _literally_ about to fall over, I'm so tired."

Slowly, to her great relief, his magic began to dissipate, leaving the air around them clear and crisp once again. She inhaled, breathing easier now that she was free from the crushing weight of his magic; out of the Mariana Trench, and back on dry land.

"We _will_ continue our conversation," he said lowly. His voice was a dangerous purr – it should have made her uncomfortable. It didn't. She merely gave him a small smile, and, just to throw him off, she bounced up onto her tiptoes and pressed a brief kiss to one sculpted cheekbone.

"Of course," she agreed amenably. "Thank you, Tom."

He stood stiffly, and she allowed herself a smirk as she brushed past him, delighting in his confusion. _Push and pull, Hermione,_ Malfoy had said. _Keep him occupied with you._

If there was one power she had over Tom Riddle, it was the power to keep him on his toes.

oooo

* * *

 **Bit of a short chapter, I know. Sorry.**

 **One other thing. The reason I had Hermione convert galleons into American dollars in one of the previous chapters is because Raven is originally** _ **from**_ **America, and so I used her former nationality as a tool to clarify. Yes, I am aware that the pound is what's used in the UK. Don't worry. We Americans aren't _all_ ignorant buffoons, despite the example that's being set in the White House at the moment…**

 **Anyways, thanks again for reading, and for not abandoning me. I promise I will continue to update, I just can't give you a schedule right now. But I will never abandon a story. Especially not this one. I've invested waaayy too much time into this fic to give up on it.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


	34. Chapter 34

**So I thought I'd start out by sharing something super exciting to me: I have two interviews with two different airline companies in the next two weeks, and I'm psyched about it. I have to fly to Orlando for one, and Denver for the other, which of course is irritating to my boss, but he can just go stuff it. But anyway, please keep your fingers crossed – I really,** _ **really**_ **want to be a flight attendant. I'm not foolish enough to think that it's a glamorous job (a lot of people think it's all about seeing the world as a glorified waitress in the sky – I'm not that disillusioned), but I know that I would be exceptionally good at it. And I get so antsy when I'm in the same place for too long. If I could, I would be totally nomadic. I love hotel rooms, tents, and any other temporary lodging, and despise going back to my apartment at the end of the day. And that feeling of first taking off in a plane is just** _ **marvelous.**_ **Plus, I love talking to people, taking care of them, and learning about where they're going and what they're doing. I don't care if you're going to Thailand or Tulsa, traveling is interesting to me, whether it's me doing it or someone else. Flying out to visit your annoying family in Seattle? Cool. Going on a business trip to Vancouver? Neato. Heading to Burkina Faso for mission work? Hell yeah. Tell me all about it.**

 **Anyways. Thought I'd just let y'all know. Moving on!**

 **Thanks to ObsidianPhantom, who is a super cool reviewer, and funny to boot.**

 **Cinnamon Silver Tiger: I would never block you. Best friends, remember? And hey, you know, if you happen to live anywhere near North Carolina, drinks over dinner isn't necessarily out of the question. I'm just as spastic in person as I am when I write. I have all sorts of stories about various misfortunes – the computer thing just scratches the surface. I recently had an incident with a very amorous yellow jacket that wanted a snog. I had to rebuff his advances, however (interspecies relationships just don't do it for me), and he didn't take it well. Naturally, disaster ensued. So let's get dinner, and trade stories.**

 **Leanne, thanks so much for taking time out of your busy life to read your way slowly but surely through my story! I'm so honored by all of your lovely and encouraging words, and I appreciate that you give me substantiated reviews and tell me what you really think. So far it has all been positive, but please don't hesitate to let me know what doesn't jibe for you – there may be a time that I go through and edit some things, and it's good to have somewhere to start.**

 **Also, to GlassGirlCeci – you are fantastic, and I want to marry you. You mentioned before in one of your reviews (which I promptly devour upon receiving) that you are gay. Well, I'm not, but I still think I fancy you regardless. You might be my second Fanfiction soul mate (the first of whom is electricsymphony). Let's elope.**

 **Anyways, thank you to all of my reviewers. If it weren't for y'all, I wouldn't continue with this story.**

 **Please enjoy, and review! I'm trying to get to 2,000...**

* * *

oooo

Although we are able to describe the psychopath fairly well, we do not understand him. -Samuel Leistedt and Paul Linkowski, Psychopathy and the Cinema: Fact or Fiction?

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars. –Og Mandino

The finest steel has to go through the hottest fire. –Richard M. Nixon

* * *

oooo

 ** _Friday, January 12, 2001  
_ _River Finn, Ireland_**

 _Hermione stares at the icy water, watching as three bodies float past: Graham Pritchard, Death Eater; Poonima Shah, Death Eater; Dennis Creevey, Order member. All below thirty, all healthy and young, all gifted in their own way, with their own talents and gifts and interests and fears and passions._

" _Sad."_

 _She looks up at Neville, who stands on the snowy bank next to her, leaning against a tree._

" _Yeah," she agrees in a tired whisper. "I know we're supposed to hate them all," she continues in a low voice, "but I can't help but think what a waste it is. All of the young Death Eaters, throwing away their lives for something so evil when they could have been happy, with a career and spouse and children and whatever else they wanted."_

 _Neville shrugs. His eyes are a serious hazel, hardened further by the massive, half-healed scar that runs from his temple to his jaw. "They made their choice," he says. But he can't hide the regret in his voice._

 _Hermione nods, and turns. George Weasley and Terrence Higgs drag a bloodied body out of the trees. Theodore Nott does not struggle in their hold – he does not have the energy. He merely laughs. Hermione stares at him, catches his blue-green eyes, and knows that he has finally lost it._

 _He chuckles as they throw him to the ground, and he lands on his knees, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Hermione looks at George._

" _Killed Dennis," he says, his face contorted with anger and his voice full of pain._

 _Hermione nods. She crouches down in front of her old Slytherin classmate, and stares into his face until he finally raises those green eyes to stare at her in turn._

" _I didn't think you had it in you," she says quietly. "Didn't think you had the stomach for it." She flares her nostrils. "Regardless," she continues in a stronger voice, standing, "we'll take you back to the Order, where you'll be tried and sentenced."_

 _Theo sneers. "Really, Granger?" he says scathingly. "_ **Tried** _and_ **sentenced** _? Could you lot_ **be** _any bloody softer?" He snorts. "This is a fucking war. Just kill me."_

 _Hermione smiles sourly and cocks her head. "As much as I would like to personally dismember you," she replies venomously, "that's not how our system works."_

 _Theo rolls his eyes, but Hermione notices he is shaking with exhaustion and blood loss. The snow around them is heavily stained with red. "Just kill me. I'm already dead anyway."_

 _Hermione frowns. "No can do, Nott – "_

" _JUST DO IT!" She jumps back as he screams at her, eyes bloodshot and crazed. "_ **Do** _it, Granger! I just killed your little friend! I sat back and watched as Bellatrix tortured and decapitated your stupid, ginger husband! I laughed when Voldemort killed McGonagall in cold blood! I saw Rosier and Flint rape your sister-in-law and then beat her until they got bored and slashed her open! And I did_ **nothing**!"

 _Hermione freezes as he begins to sob. The sheer self-loathing in his expression makes her take a step back._

" _I'm despicable," he cries, his voice choked and raspy. "I threw my lot in with my father and the rest of his twisted, sick friends," he says tremulously, "and now I've become just like them." He sobs. "I never wanted this," he continues. "But I've turned into a monster, just like Lord Fuck-face." He snarls. "Do it, Granger!"_

 _Hermione is frozen, staring at Theodore Nott's lanky form as he kneels in the snow, his handsome face streaked with blood and his robes soaked through with the wet snow. She can only picture him sitting back and relaxing as his colleagues tortured and killed her family, and the image is so potent that it tears through her body and soul like a cold wind. She takes a step backwards._

" **Avada Kedavra**."

 _She jolts at the flash of green light. Nott's eyes are robbed of life, and then he tips over and lands face first in the snow. She doesn't realize she's been holding her breath until she gasps for air, clutching at her chest._

 _She turns to Neville, blinking away the shock as he lowers his wand grimly._

" _You told us Ron and Ginny and Fleur and Seamus," Neville's voice cracks on the last name, "were killed by the killing curse."_

 _Hermione swallows. "They were," she lies. She stares down at Nott. "He was just trying to goad us into it."_

 _They believe it. As she walks away from Nott's body, she wonders what is worse: that Nott had seen all those things and done nothing – or that she lies about it day after day, keeping the truth from her friends._

 _It is then, as she looks down at her fallen foe, his blood staining the snow red – a boy that had once nearly beat her academically during more innocent times – that she realizes that there is very little that is black and white, and that all the shades of grey in the world cannot deliver her from her lies._

* * *

oooo

"She's still asleep."

Draco clenched his jaw, his eyes cold as he stepped through the portrait hole to the Head Boy's quarters. Nice enough, he observed as he glanced around the sitting room, if not a bit small. And it was impersonal in a way that only the soulless could manage.

"I brought her a bag, like she asked," he drawled, settling into the 'I'm-Draco-Malfoy-and-you-mean-less-than-nothing-to-me' persona. It was the impeccable balance of disdainful and bored, and it was one of the best ways to get under people's skin.

His mother had been a brilliant, scary woman.

By the slight tightening around Riddle's eyes, it was working. He tried to smother the rich surge of satisfaction, and inevitably failed. After all, it was hard not to be smug whilst one-upping Lord _freaking_ Voldemort.

"What was it that called her away earlier?" Riddle asked, his eyes narrowing to slits. "She was reluctant to share."

Draco snorted, amused. "And you think I'm going to be _less_ reluctant?" he said incredulously. "Compared to me, Hermione is practically chatty."

Riddle's nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. "Can't blame me for trying."

"I don't _blame_ you for anything," Draco said easily. A lie, in the grand scheme of things, but who was counting? "I'm just surprised you would ask a question that was so self-evident."

He left it at that, the insult quiet but still as quick and sharp as a snakebite. He knew it would crawl under the Head Boy's skin and needle him, and the thought simply _delighted_ Draco.

"Can I take this up?" he asked before Riddle could respond, holding up the leather satchel. "I'd like a moment with her, before your posse of Pureblooded prats – minus one, or so I hear – come stumbling in."

He could tell Riddle was tired and off his game when the handsome brunette simply stood there glaring, and then gestured up the stairs. It felt nice, but it also felt…odd. The Tom Riddle he'd come to be acquainted with in this timeline was always sharp of mind. He wondered, as he climbed the stairs, what had changed that. Maybe it had something to do with the sexual activities with Hermione that Draco had a hard time thinking about for too long. But even that didn't seem right –

It hit him like a sucker punch to the face. The oily blackness of the darkest of magicks that hung in the room like a bad smell.

He hung his head. So that was it. The darkness of the _Probilium_ spell had worked its way ever so subtly into Riddle's brain, and had addled it without him even knowing it.

Draco wondered at how he hadn't felt the magnitude of it when they had been together just hours ago underneath the invisibility cloak. But then he thought that perhaps she had shed most of it here, in this room, and she had tricked him into thinking she had used a lesser dark curse.

He sighed, and went over to where she was snuggled up underneath the Head Boy's covers. He laid a hand on her head and brushed her wild hair back from her temple, and her eyes snapped open, clear and focused and afraid in seconds. Then she looked at him, and relaxed, before her eyes widened again and she shot up in the bed, swinging her legs over the side of the mattress. She planted her feet on the floor, made to stand, but he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"I didn't – I wasn't – " She swallowed, staring up at him with guilty brown eyes. Then her chin trembled, and she closed her eyes and dropped her head into her hands.

When she spoke again, her voice was thick with tears. "I'm so sorry, Draco," she said, pressing the heels of her hands over her eyes. "You must be so angry with me."

He looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience and strength. He knelt in front of her, and grasped her wrists with gentle hands, pulling them away from her face.

"I can't be angry," he said, taking her hands and pressing them to his lips as their eyes met. "There can't be room in my heart for anger when I'm so damn _worried."_ He pressed his forehead to her thigh. "Merlin, Hermione," he said, unable to keep the anguish from his voice. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" he asked softly. "This room is steeped in it. I'm just surprised I didn't feel it rolling off of you in waves when we were in the forest earlier. But here, now, it hangs thick in the air."

"I know," she said miserably. "I know."

"Riddle isn't performing as usual," he said, his lips quirking. "He's a bit addled. As addled as someone like him can be, anyway. I imagine the rest of them will be a bit thick this morning, too."

She managed a shaky smile. "You're not usually the one looking for a silver lining," she said. She sniffed. "But I'll take it."

"Just…" He sighed, and stood. He bent down and picked her up, ignoring the objecting shouts of his poisoned muscles. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he sat down in an armchair, settling her into his lap. "Just lean on me, for a bit."

He felt her tense, curl her legs in tighter, and then she fisted his shirt and turned her face into his shoulder and shook.

He held her close as she trembled, felt her quiet tears soak into the fabric of his shirt. No, he wasn't angry. Just tired. Tired, worried, and so, so sad. He hated the sadness most of all. He preferred anger to sadness.

"I love you," she whispered into his shoulder. Her fingers pressed into the scarred flesh of his back. "So much."

He turned his head and kissed her hair. He sighed, closing his eyes. "I'll never let you go, Hermione," he promised. "As long as I'm alive, I'll never let you go. For better or worse. Do you understand?"

She nodded. "Yes." She lifted her head, turned and looked into his eyes. He smoothed her rich coffee curls away from her face.

"Please," he said quietly, "please don't turn away from me. Trust me. Your heart is safe with me, your mind is safe with me, your body is safe with me. Your _life_ is safe with me. I will never turn away from you, Granger. But you have to do the same."

"I'll never break your trust again," she promised, touching her forehead to his. "I swear it."

They sat like that for a moment, tangled up in each other both body and soul. Then she unfolded, and he stood and helped steady her as she stood on weak legs.

"Help me change?" she asked quietly. She didn't need his help to change clothes, of course. She just didn't want to be alone.

Also, killing two birds with one stone… Draco smiled at her as she winked. They'd both noticed that Tom was standing right outside the cracked door, watching and listening. He was smooth about it – but Draco and Hermione had spent years noticing things like that.

And they both knew that jealousy was a powerful tool. It was a dangerous tool, one that needed to be handled carefully, but a tool all the same.

He snatched the leather bag from where he'd set it on the floor, and followed her into the bathroom. He left the door cracked again, wider this time. He'd seen Hermione naked a hundred times by now, and he suspected Riddle had as well. Or at least mostly. So modesty was a moot point. Still, they both knew that Tom hated Draco on principle because he considered Hermione his, and Draco was in the way. It had been like that from almost the very beginning.

Draco handed her undergarments as she stripped off the shirt and knickers she was wearing. His nearly infallible self-control reached up and strangled the life out of any desire that might have sparked – wanting her was counterproductive, at this point, and would only serve to torture him. With a flick of her hand, she burned the knickers and the bra that she'd left sitting on the counter when she'd taken it off to shower.

He raised an eyebrow. "That was dramatic," he commented.

"They were my wedding knickers," she said, waving a hand in dismissal. "And the stockings and garters were ruined. I just figured it was time to let them go."

He hummed, and held out a pair of black panties with an old-fashion floral pattern that somehow managed to be both timeline-appropriate and radically sexy. "Nice," he said as she snatched them from him and slid them up her legs. He handed her the matching bra, and turned her so he could snap it closed for her in the back.

He could practically feel the simmering temper of the dark wizard in the next room. Perhaps, if he were a few years younger, he'd be afraid. Now it just provided welcome humor in a life that was anything but funny.

You had to find the good moments and hang on to them as the utter _shit_ that was the rest of it pummeled you down into submission. It was the only way to keep from chucking yourself off a cliff, Draco mused as he lazily fastened one of Hermione's garters to her stocking as she did the rest.

Perhaps he would have a few more good moments before he left this life for the next.

* * *

oooo

Tom sat and stewed and simmered and _hated_ as he listened to them talk.

And he hated that he hated. He hated anything to do with this absurd, absolutely fucking _useless_ jealousy that pounded in his head, surged through his veins, thick and hot and fast and riding the coattails of the darkness of the _Probilium_ spell that he'd tasted on the tip of her tongue.

Hermione. Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. At the end of each day, she was what he thought about while falling asleep. At night, he dreamed strange dreams full of fire and her wild stare. And each morning he woke to the sound of her laugh ringing in his ears, the vision of her wielding her wand with a wicked smile, and the feel of small, scarred hands carding through his hair.

He was becoming obsessed.

Tom had long been obsessive. He knew this about himself. He could remember as a child, getting obsessive about his collection of stolen things. Then, it was learning whatever magic he could to climb to the top of the heap – so desperately seeking to be not only above average, but _extraordinary._ Later on, it was opening the Chamber of Secrets. Then it was the horcruxes, achieving what no other had ever achieved. Six. He wanted six. His soul split into seven pieces, a magical number, keeping him untouchable for the rest of time.

Immortality.

Sitting on the end of his bed, watching Malfoy hold up a pretty brassiere with a look of utter nonchalance, he realized he hadn't had a single thought for his horcruxes in weeks.

And he realized, with a certain amount of horror, that he didn't really care.

* * *

oooo

The Knights of Walpurgis showed up right at nine. When Tom Riddle gave you a time, you were never late, and never early. It amused Hermione to think that the remaining six boys had undoubtedly gotten to the portrait door a few minutes early, and then knocked right at nine o'clock just to make sure they were absolutely punctual.

It was amazing the amount of control the young Dark Lord had over his followers. Then again…

Hermione tilted her head, watching them file in from her position on the couch. She looked at Mulciber's sweaty and anxious face, watched the way Thoros' eyes lit up and how he naturally gravitated in her direction. Edmond gave her a respectful nod and a small but genuine smile. Conan was unreadable, as usual, but she did not miss the way his eyes sought her out immediately, flickering over her form in silent assessment. Though his face did not register any emotion, she noticed the way his shoulders loosened. And Dolohov's cold, cruel eyes slid over her multiple times, filled with a mild sort of interest that made her uncomfortable, but thoughtful.

Perhaps Riddle did have significant control over his Knights. But she was not without control of her own. It would not do to play to it too strongly, too soon, but it was worth remembering. She would not be overconfident, but she was almost certain that Avery's allegiance had shifted entirely. She was almost certain that Thoros owed her a life debt. She was almost certain that Dolohov was far too interested in her to make a move against her, at least for now, and she was also almost certain that, no matter what she did today to try to fix Mulciber's mind, he would always be at least marginally terrified in her presence.

"Firstly," she began, drawing comfort from Malfoy's solid presence beside her as she spoke, "I would like to thank all of you very much for coming to my aid last night," she said.

She really was sincere. She knew at least Dolohov and Mulciber had only done so because ordered, and that Edmond might have had reservations, but there was no doubt in her mind that Avery, Nott and Riddle had all been sincerely invested in finding her. Perhaps for the wrong reasons, especially on Tom's part, but sincerity was sincerity, no matter the motivation. She could appreciate that.

She met each of their eyes in turn, taking note of their reactions and knowing that Draco was doing the same. "I imagine I would either be dead from exposure, or my injuries, if you six hadn't come along. Perhaps even a werewolf's snack. Or, Grindelwald would have sent another party out to finish the job, and I would be in a cell somewhere on the continent. I'm grateful to you."

She smoothed a hand over a pleat in her school skirt. "Secondly," she continued, "I'd like to repeat a sentiment from last night. If any of you are uncertain of your ability to keep what happened to Rosier a secret, it would be better for all of us if you had your memory altered." She looked around the room. "There's no shame in it. It's a mark of strength to know oneself well enough to admit to certain traits. Although I imagine that no one here has a propensity for wagging tongues."

"Only Gavin," Edmond said. "He was always the weak link." He quickly looked up at Tom, and then at the rest of his Knights. "If I'm not too bold in saying so."

"You're not," Tom said bluntly, his mouth turning down in a contemplative frown.

"Good," she said. "Regardless of how well we can all keep a secret, however, it would be prudent to keep to ourselves as much as possible for the next few hours, at least. The spell I performed last night leaves a…residue," she said with distaste. "I doubt it will be a problem, but there are those sensitive witches and wizards that have a propensity for aura magic. It wouldn't do to sit next to one and alert them to the fact that you have been involved in such a Dark practice. These people are rare, but I've known a couple in my lifetime and I was never able to get anything past them," she said with a bitter smile, thinking of Luna and Charlie. That was often why Charlie had preferred the company of dragons to that of his fellow humans. He could get easily overwhelmed with his sensitivity to the magical auras around him. He'd admitted to her once that it sometimes frightened him. Luna, of course, merely watched on serenely, unbothered by the colors and feelings and sheer magnitude of other people's power.

To absolutely no one's surprise, the two peculiar introverts had ended up in bed together. And as far as she knew, both were still alive back in their timeline.

She hoped, rather fruitlessly, that they were together, and happy. It was a silly notion, perhaps. But it was something to hold on to.

She cleared her throat, pushing such nostalgia out of her head with fierce determination. "Thirdly," she said, "if any of you happen to notice a male student or teacher with a scar on their hand, please mention it to me." Her nostrils flared. "Rosier wasn't particularly concerned with keeping his mouth shut. He had a contact – someone else within the castle that came to him with the prospect. I can't say I'm surprised that Grindelwald has an agent within the school," she continued. "He has a number of interests here. Dumbledore, of course, is of primary concern. But, as Tom may have already mentioned to you, he has expressed no small amount of interest in both Draco and myself, and Tom as well." She shrugged. "That doesn't surprise me either. Grindelwald is a collector. And what he cannot collect, he destroys."

"You do not think that this will be his first attempt." Dolohov looked at her with bland eyes. It was not a question.

"No. He already had an agent accost us in Diagon Alley," she said, waving her hand. "I took care of him. I'm not entirely sure if he was just gathering information, or if he was going to try to abduct one of us. Either way, I sent him back to his master under the effects of a very slow freezing charm. Knowing what I know of Grindelwald, he would have been more fascinated than upset, and likely renewed his efforts from there. When he finds the bodies in the woods, he'll likely be even more intrigued."

"Of course, despite having a strong curiosity and wish to possess all things interesting and powerful, Grindelwald has one giant flaw that tends to get in his way," Draco drawled. His ability to sound bored whilst talking about one of the most dangerous people on the planet amazed Hermione. "Hubris."

"He has a bad habit of underestimating others," she added, almost feeling like she was talking about another Dark Lord she was familiar with. One that was currently standing in the same room. "At least at first. I imagine he won't make the mistake a third time. But it is a weakness to exploit."

"You mentioned that you don't think he was working alone?" Tom asked, leaning up against the mantle, the perfect picture of aristocratic ease.

"Rosier was incredulous that Grindelwald was the one he had been working for," she said with a nod. "And the Russian said, 'Mostly.' Which makes me think that there are those that decided to encourage Grindelwald to get me out of the way." She grinned a toothy smile. "I think I make Mr. Black and Mr. Malfoy rather nervous. Though I can't be sure it was them – it would be a bold move for them to reach out to Herr Grindelwald, especially in their positions – I wouldn't be surprised if it were."

Edmond rubbed his jaw, and met her eyes. "Not Black," he said with a shake of his head. "He's too controlled for that. He'd want to see if he could use you, first." He looked at Tom thoughtfully, and then to Thoros. Nott gave him a small nod, confirming that he agreed with Lestrange's assessment. "But Malfoy doesn't have that sort of patience."

"He fears you," Tom murmured, looking into the fire pensively. "You make Black nervous, but he's not nervous enough to work with _Grindelwald_ to eliminate you," he continued, putting his hands in his pockets. Draco was right – the young Lord Voldemort was unusually subdued. Tired, she supposed, and weighed down with Dark magic. The rest of them were sluggish as well.

"But Agricola is afraid," he continued. "He sees you as more of an immediate threat. I wouldn't go so far as to say that Pollux thinks you're little more than a fly he needs to swat – I think you've garnered more respect than _that –_ but Malfoy knows you're not a fly."

He smirked at her, and she allowed herself a small grin in return. She knew he was thinking of Slughorn's party, when she'd teasingly accused him of thinking she was the prettiest fly in the room.

 _Malfoy knows you're not a fly._ And, now, so did Riddle. Perhaps he was still the spider – but instead of catching a fly, he'd caught a bird. One that was proceeding to pluck the strands of his carefully constructed web with its talons.

"I've always thought Malfoy was the thicker of the two," Dolohov said with a snort. "Irritating man."

Thoros shook his head with a frown. "Objectively, maybe he's not as smart, or magically gifted. But he's more intuitive than Black."

"Self-preservation," Avery said quietly. They all turned to look at him. If he was bothered by the sudden attention, he did not let on. "The Blacks are the type to fall on their sword," he said. "You won't see them switch allegiances. They aren't concerned with their status. Even if the day came when their power and standing were moot, they wouldn't cave to it. It's a kind of pride; an arrogance of sorts that the Malfoys don't have in such spades. The Malfoys have always been slippery. Willing to do whatever it takes to stay right where they are. They aren't the types to go down with the sinking ship – not like the Blacks. They're survivors."

Hermione was surprised at his astuteness. She really shouldn't be, by now. But everything the sixth year said was true. It was why, in their time, the Blacks had all but died out, but the Malfoys had managed to survive. Perhaps they were slippery, like Conan put it, but they were also far more adaptable.

Despite her anger towards the prospect of Agricola working with the despot trying to take over the wizarding world, she couldn't help but appreciate the man's attempt. It was foolish, to be sure. Gellert Grindelwald was hardly trustworthy – certainly not someone she would attempt to form an alliance with. But that was Draco's great-grandfather's problem. He was trying so hard to get rid of what he saw as a more upsetting threat – she was certainly closer to home – that he didn't stop to consider what doors he would open whilst doing so. Then again, like Conan said, the Malfoys were slippery. Grindelwald might easily stride through that open door, and the Malfoys would be bowing and scraping and simpering in record time. She had no doubt that the perpetually blond family would somehow end up at the Dark wizard's right hand, thriving in the new regime. The Blacks would say all the wrong things, puff themselves up with pride and conceit, and get tossed from the cliffs.

She wondered what Draco was thinking. Did he appreciate these qualities in his family, or resent them? Perhaps a little of both.

"Still," Draco mused, stretching his arms out over the back of the couch. "I would expect Malfoy and Black to go after us in a subtler fashion first," he said thoughtfully. "Starting with our reputations. I'd want to try everything I could _before_ I approached a man like Grindelwald. We've only been here for a month and a half. Surely it wouldn't have been too hard to try to pull us down in a different fashion?"

"You've already garnered far stronger of a foothold here than anyone could expect," Tom said. He looked like he didn't know whether to be pleased or displeased. "Malfoy and Black don't have as much influence in Hogwarts as they do in the Ministry. I imagine they might've put feelers out, come up against a brick wall, and decided that they would have to wait until you were out of Hogwarts to do any actual damage."

"But Malfoy got impatient," Hermione finished for him. "I wouldn't think he'd do anything behind Black's back."

"Which either means that he's just in general more paranoid than Black, or that he knows something that Black doesn't," Tom ventured. His eyes met Draco's, then Hermione's. "Something that made him even more nervous."

Thoros cleared his throat. "I saw something," he said slowly. "I didn't think anything of it, at the time. But the day you came back from Morocco – when we were in the Hog's Head – I'd seen Gavin walking through Hogsmeade with Malfoy. I thought, at the time, that Malfoy was offering Rosier a job."

"You think Rosier would have openly admitted to the utter humiliation that Granger put him through the night of Slug's party?" Edmond asked incredulously, looking around the room with skeptical eyes. "We all know what you did to him," he continued, staring at Hermione. "Hell, I saw it with my own eyes. He might've wanted revenge, but I can't imagine him pulling down his trousers to show his brand new scar to the likes of Agricola Malfoy. His pride wouldn't have allowed it."

"Perhaps he didn't tell Malfoy about what had happened to him," Dolohov said, his voice low. His cold, hard eyes met Hermione's, and then slid purposefully over to Mulciber. "Perhaps he told him something else."

When her eyes flickered over to the boy in question, he broke out in a cold sweat. She sighed, and looked up to the ceiling. "Great. So, Agricola found out that I tortured Ambrose in cold blood and turned him into a sniveling wretch," she said tiredly. She looked pointedly at the attractive brunette, and he flushed, his olive green eyes dropping to the floor. "And it unnerved him. Or Rosier did, in fact, swallow his pride, and told him about what I did to _him,"_ she said. She looked down, and rubbed her bare toes over the bloodstain still evident in Tom's carpet. "Whichever story it was, it had an effect. But even if he'd shared what he'd learned with Black, Pollux still wouldn't have turned to Grindelwald. So why would Malfoy keep it a secret and act on his own?"

They were all silent for a moment.

"Perhaps Grindelwald promised him something in return," Draco said slowly. "Something that he didn't want to share."

"Pride is the weakness of the Ancient and Noble House of Black," Tom murmured, his lips quirking into an amused smirk. "With the Malfoys, it's greed."

Hermione hummed in contemplation. "Of course, this is just speculation," she said. "We don't know if it was him at all. Maybe he _was_ just talking to Rosier about a job, and there's another player in the mix."

Edmond rubbed his hands together. She met his eyes, and smiled at the mischief and greedy intrigue she saw in those dark depths. "This is starting to get exciting."

Draco barked out a laugh. He looked at Hermione, and raised an eyebrow. "You just can't resist making a splash, can you?"

"Never," she replied with an easy smile. "You know how I like to show off, and get into other people's business. I can't help myself."

Her friend rolled his eyes. "I would've liked to have spent the last months of my life in relative peace."

"Liar," she drawled lazily. "You would have gotten bored." She patted his hand fondly, then sighed. "So, what do we do?" she said, posing the question to the group. "About Rosier, about Grindelwald, about Malfoy and Black?" She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"We go about business as normal," Tom said confidently. "We all agree on a story, cover our bases."

"Agreed," Draco said. "However, did anyone see the lot of you leave the common room last night?"

Tom stiffened. Mulciber cleared his throat. "I took care of it. I didn't think of it until we got back to the common room last night – I _Obliviated_ Alphard and Hadrian in their dorm while they were asleep, and then did the same with Octavia Bulstrode and Cybil Travers in the common room this morning before we left to come here."

"That's good thinking, Ambrose," Tom said quietly, fixing his penetrating stare on his trusted minion. "Nice work."

"And you're sure no one saw you?" Draco asked.

Mulciber's eyes flashed in irritation, and it was the first emotion other than abject terror that she'd seen him express in her presence since their little rendezvous in the forest over a month ago. "I'm not an idiot," he said scathingly.

Draco raised an eyebrow, undaunted. "Neither am I. And I've still made mistakes along the way. No one is immune to it. Think back. Was there anyone else in the common room this morning when you wiped the girls' memories? And are there any other sixth year boys that might have woken up to see you leave after you took care of Black and Flint?"

"There are only two other sixth year boys, and they're both sitting in this room," Ambrose said, gesturing to Dolohov and Avery. "And Miranda Travers, Cybil's older sister, was sitting by the fire this morning in the commons. But I was subtle."

"She wouldn't say anything, anyway," Thoros said, waving it off. "Even if she had seen, she'd keep quiet. She keeps to herself, doesn't even really socialize with the other seventh year girls."

Draco turned to look at Hermione and Riddle in turn. "Whichever of you sees her first, get into her head. You two are the best Legilimens. Make sure she didn't see anything. If she did, wipe it out. When news of Rosier gets out, and if she somehow connects last night with Mulciber wiping her sister's memory this morning, that could raise questions we don't want to have to answer. We could always just explain it away by using the prank last night as an excuse to _Obliviate_ a gossipy fifth year and a dimwitted sixth year, but I think it's best we avoid having to explain it at all." He looked at Mulciber. "I have no doubt you were subtle about it. But you never know who might be sharper than you give them credit for. If anything were to make her suspicious, that could spell trouble. Might as well be thorough, and tie up any loose ends."

Though Tom seemed a bit disgruntled to be essentially taking orders from Draco, he still apparently saw the sense in it, and nodded his head perfunctorily. "One of us will take care of it." He tapped his fingers on the mantle. "What about preparing for potential retaliation from Grindelwald, or Malfoy? Think. Can we make assumptions about how he's going to respond to this?"

"Well, he'll have to learn about it, first," she said, crossing her legs. She noticed that his eyes flickered down to where her stockings did absolutely nothing to hide her scars. "I assume he'll send someone to investigate, if he hasn't already. He was undoubtedly expecting Rosier and me to arrive last night. He'll be irritated enough by now to check. If and when he finds Gavin's remains, I'm not sure what he'll do next. Perhaps send an anonymous tip to the Ministry, in order to stir things up and cause trouble for me. After all, it would probably be best if no one found him at all." She crossed her fingers. "Here's hoping that some wild animal came sniffing around and decided to finish the job."

"You can hope all you want, Granger," Draco said condescendingly. "No creature, magical or otherwise, would touch what is left of that body with a ten meter pole. That sort of magic…" He shook his head, looking perturbed. "That entire area would be so tainted that even a Muggle might be tempted to walk the other way. The remains will be untouched. I'm sure of it."

"It's probably wise to expect that the information will get out," Tom hedged. "Whether that's today or tomorrow or next week, somehow something will expose the truth. Which means a great deal of acting on our part, having to feign surprise." He looked at the two time-travelers amusedly. "Which I've discovered isn't particularly a problem for either of you. Not exactly adverse to lying, are you?"

"We do what we have to do," Draco said coldly, his eyes frosty orbs of silver in a face hard with experience. "You're the last person who should be judging."

Tom's eye twitched. "It's not judgment," he denied easily, "it's admiration. I imagine both of you had to develop the skill. I remember you mentioning that you were a spy, Mallery. When we went to brunch in Diagon Alley."

"Yes," Draco said hesitantly. "For a short time. My cover was blown after about ten months."

"Then I'm certain you can handle faking the sort of shock that comes with hearing about the unexpected demise of a classmate," Tom said.

"I think we'll manage," Hermione said, raising an eyebrow.

"And Malfoy?" Edmond said, licking his lips nervously. "If he knows what was supposed to go down last night, he'll know that you were the one that killed Gavin," he said to Hermione.

She shrugged. "Yes, he'll know. And he'll sit on it. Expose me, and he exposes himself." She cocked her head. "Malfoy might have power in this society and more money than God, but he would still be crucified in the court of public opinion if it was found out that he had colluded with Grindelwald. Not to mention potentially being thrown in Azkaban for treason. He won't make a sound. Too risky. As Avery said, self-preservation is the name of the day. He won't jeopardize his life, his money, his family."

"Probably not," Conan said flatly. He looked at Hermione without emotion. "You still might want to threaten him regardless."

She hummed, and Draco grinned. "I might. I won't pretend like I don't _want_ to. I'd love to get my claws into Agricola Malfoy and spook the hell out of him," she said. She saw Tom's lips quirk up in amusement, saw the desire flash in his eyes. It made her ache. "But I'm not sure if that would do the job of scaring him into submission, or if it would simply make him lash out in a panic. I suppose I'll have to get a feel for it, trust my instincts."

"You have instincts in spades," Draco said, dropping his head back on the couch. "I'm hungry."

"We can't exactly have this conversation over breakfast in the Great Hall," Dolohov injected. His accent, usually English with a hint of Russian, had turned into Russian with a hint of English. She supposed that was exhaustion. The _Probilium_ curse had affected all of them. Draco was the only one that seemed mostly unbothered by it, but that was because he hadn't been there when she'd cast it.

"We could go to the kitchens," Draco grumbled. "It's right down the corridor."

She sniggered. Draco got exceptionally grumpy when he was hungry. She'd never noticed until he'd started living with the Order just how much he liked to eat. He had been right at home sitting at a table full of Weasleys. Of course, he was far more polite whilst stuffing his face, and he wouldn't be caught _dead_ chewing with his mouth open, but he could still tuck it away.

"Or we could bring the kitchens to us," she suggested thoughtfully.

"How the hell would you manage that?" Dolohov asked with a sneer.

She sneered back. "At some point, you're all going to realize that connections aren't limited to people in the upper echelon of society," she said disdainfully. "It pays to have friends, and not just in high places." She smiled. "For example: Muffin?"

It took all of five seconds for a deafening crack to split the air, startling everyone but Hermione and Draco. Muffin stood in front of the couch, looking up at Hermione with adoration. Her big ears quivered in excitement.

"Missy Hermione?" the little elf squeaked. "You is needing something from Muffin?"

"Oh yes, Muffin, we would greatly appreciate your help," she crooned, holding out her hand. The little she-elf laid her own hand atop Hermione's palm without hesitation. "I know it's rather selfish of me to ask, but would you mind bringing us a bit of breakfast from the kitchens?"

"Oh, of _course!_ " the elf exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her tiny feet. "Muffin would be so happy to be serving Missy Hermione and her friends breakfast." She leaned forward to look Hermione in the eye, and lowered her voice. "And I is assuming that Missy Hermione would like Muffin to be discreet?"

Hermione winked at her, and squeezed her hand. "You guessed it. As usual, Muffin, you are absolutely wonderful. Thank you."

The little elf blushed, pulling at her tufts of brown hair in bashfulness. Her big green eyes sparkled with pleasure. "I is being happy to serve you, Hermione Granger. You is smart, and kind, and beautiful. All Hogwarts elves is being excited when they get to do things for you."

Now it was Hermione's turn to blush. "I'm honored that you think so highly of me."

Muffin leaned forward once again and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper that was still surely heard throughout the rest of the room. "They is fighting over who gets to do Missy Hermione's laundry," she said gravely. Before Hermione could respond, the elf straightened and flashed her a bright, crooked smile that melted Hermione's heart right in her chest. "But don't be saying Muffin said so. Muffin will be right back." Then she snapped her little fingers, and was gone with another earsplitting pop.

The room was silent. They all just stared at her. Draco was shaking with silent laughter, leaning forward and holding his head in his hands. She scowled, and swatted him. "Shut up," she said sullenly.

He straightened, and tears threatened to fall from his eyes. She would have been irritated, if she hadn't been so pleased to see him laughing with such abandon.

" _Laundry!"_ he said with a hoot. "I would give anything to see _that_ argument go down. _Honestly,_ Granger. You are ridiculous."

She glowered at him, and then looked around the room. "Anybody else care to say what's on their minds?" she asked snippily. She did not wait for them to respond. "We're getting food, aren't we? Hand delivered. I refuse to hear that my friendship with an elf is _ridiculous._ Muffin is very sweet. And very useful."

Once upon a time, saying the words "elf" and "useful" in the same sentence would have appalled her. That was years ago. She'd come to realize since then that "useful" was one of the highest words of praise you could bestow upon an elf. It still rankled a bit, but that was becoming less and less with the passage of time.

"Yes, yes, I know," Draco said, wiping at his eyes as his laughter faded into chuckles. "It's just delightfully funny. House elves fighting for the privilege of washing Hermione Granger's dirty laundry. I'll keep that image in my head, pull it out whenever I need a laugh."

She sniffed, and held her head high. "I know most people think house elves are lesser creatures; dumb and weak and worthless," she said. "But they're capable of quite a lot. If they weren't naturally inclined to be helpful and subservient, they might be a threat."

Thoros laughed out loud. When her harsh gaze slid over to him, he immediately looked contrite, but shrugged. "If you say so, Granger."

The rest of them looked amused as well. She shook her head with a rueful smile. "One day," she murmured, just loud enough for them to hear, "one of you is going to underestimate a house elf, and it will be the last mistake you make."

Draco went still and silent beside her. She knew he felt terrible about what had happened to Dobby.

"That's assuming a house elf were even capable of harming a human," Edmond said with a scoff.

"I saw a house elf drop a chandelier once, missed a woman by a hair," she said, holding her fingers up to indicate a small amount. "Could have killed her. Would have, if she hadn't let me go and dived out of the way. It was very satisfying. I had, of course, just been tortured with the _Cruciatus_ and carved up with a knife on the drawing room floor, so my memories are a bit blurry. But it was, if I recall, vastly entertaining."

Draco chuckled. Even though the incident had ended with a knife stuck in the elf's chest, it was still funny to think about it. "The look on my aunt's face," he said with a smirk. "Priceless. I was scared out of my mind, of course. But I did a secret fist pump when the five of you disappeared."

She smirked at him. She knew what he was doing. Draco was excellent at this sort of manipulation: dropping just enough information to have people out of their minds with curiosity. It was a thing that could drive a man like Tom Riddle crazy. They'd both seen it that day at the Quivering Quill, when they'd let slip about the dragon (an accident, but it had had the same effect, and they'd both noticed). And now they used it again, dropping half-finished stories into the Dark Lord's lap in a way that made his fists clench with the ever-present need to know _more._

After all, that was the weakness that Hermione wanted to exploit the most. The search for knowledge, for power, for omniscience. When Tom Riddle couldn't figure something out, it frustrated him to no end. And it simply delighted Hermione and Draco.

 _Bored,_ her mind whispered. _You're both way too bored. Get a hobby, for God's sake. A_ **reasonable** _one. Bird watching. Stamp collecting. Whittling. Irritating Dark Lords for fun isn't a healthy pastime._

"Poor, sweet elf," she whispered, rubbing her left arm and thinking of Dobby. "We would have all died if it weren't for him."

He hummed in agreement. He'd told her much later that Dobby had been a source of comfort throughout his childhood. He'd protected Draco as best he could, and had often played games with him where Lucius couldn't see. Sometimes, after Dobby had started to work at Hogwarts, he would sneak into Draco's dorm and leave him treats under his pillow.

A lifetime ago, now. Sometimes it was surreal, thinking back to those days. And it was surreal, too, that they were back in the castle in which they'd spent a third of their childhood. A castle that had never seen war; whose Great Hall had never been a place to lay dead bodies.

"Missy Hermione?" Muffin popped back in, levitating a huge tray of various breakfast items over to the coffee table. She looked at Hermione with big eyes. "You is saying that an elf saved your life?"

"Yes, Muffin," she said gently, reaching forward to grab a carafe to make herself a cup of coffee. Muffin very nearly snatched it from her hands, and proceeded to fix Hermione's coffee herself – just as she liked it. "He did. Sacrificed his life for us."

Muffin looked at her in awe. "A free elf?" she asked.

"Yes, he'd been free for many years," Hermione said with a smile. "He loved being free."

Muffin quivered. "I is thinking that I could never love to be free," she said with a shudder. "But it is a great honor to be helped by a free elf. They is not having any obligations, only choices." She patted Hermione's hand in a gesture that was almost motherly. "I is serving Hogwarts first, but Muffin is very happy to serve Missy Hermione, who was saved by a free elf, second." She beamed at them. "Muffin is going to tell the rest of the Hogwarts elves. Then they will fight even harder for the privilege of doing Hermione Granger's laundry."

When she popped out of the room, there was complete silence. Hermione blinked. Tom and his Knights of Walpurgis just stared at her.

She shrugged. "Well, there's breakfast, at least," she said cheerily, hoping to dispel the tension of discomfort and disbelief that was etched into the faces of the men around her. "Go on," she encouraged, nodding to the heap of steaming food as Draco began to hoard food onto a plate. "Or there won't be any left. I'm not exaggerating when I say Mallery could eat that entire platter in about fifteen minutes."

Hesitantly, they all moved toward the platter at once. Muffin had left a stack of plates, and they all began to load up on eggs and toast and breakfast meats and an assortment of pastries and Muffin's namesake.

"If anyone asks about our whereabouts last night," she began again, getting back to the subject at hand, "you all went to bed, and I slept at Draco's."

Malfoy cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That's…not going to work."

She narrowed her eyes. "You _didn't."_

"I did," he said, looking chagrined.

She looked up at the ceiling, praying for patience. She heard the Knights all shift, pinpointed when they figured it out.

"Snowborn?" Edmond said, his eyes bulging. _"Really?"_ He whistled, then looked at Malfoy with frank appreciation in his gaze. "Nice."

Draco rolled his eyes. Hermione could tell it bothered him that they all knew, but there was nothing for it. When it came to Halloween of 1944, it was best not to let any secrets linger between them. If they wanted to get away with murder – literally – they all needed to be on the same page.

Thoros was wearing a shit-eating grin. "Pure as freshly fallen snow, that one," he chirped. "Can't believe you managed to get in her knickers – "

"First of all," Draco interrupted, sounding strained. "I can get into the knickers of anyone I damn well please." He said this confidently, without a shadow of a doubt, and Hermione grinned as she took a bite out of her muffin. Indeed, she hadn't known of a single girl that had ever turned him down after he'd expressed interest. She couldn't imagine anyone that was unmarried and under the age of sixty walking away from the prospect of getting Malfoy into bed.

"Second of all," he continued, buttering a piece of toast as if he hadn't a care in the world, "Sabrina is a nice, respectable sort. So I'm not going to sit here and talk about 'getting into her knickers', because she deserves better than crude locker room talk. So I'll thank you kindly to not speculate as to her virginity or lack thereof, or talk amongst yourselves about what kind of a lay she might be." He took a bite of toast, looked around the room. Despite his easy tone of voice, he looked absolutely _deadly._ "And if I hear even a whisper about my amorous activities outside of this room," he said quietly, "I won't bother finding out who it was that started it." He took a sip of coffee. "I'll just kill all of you." He looked over at Hermione. "I do enjoy that blood boiling spell you made up," he said casually. "And the one that strangles the victim with his or her own tongue. That one is creative."

"That one wasn't mine," she denied easily, watching as brief discomfort flashed in Edmond's eyes. "Mr. Chosen One made that one up."

"That's right," Draco said, smiling at the mention of Harry. "Clever."

"He was."

"We get the point," Tom said impatiently. He and Avery alone looked unfazed by Draco's threat.

"What Draco is trying to say is that he won't hesitate to blow you into tiny little pieces if you blab to anyone about Snowborn." She paused, and smiled congenially. "As would I, for that matter. Her being a friend, and all. So, kindly keep your crude words unspoken, and don't go about ruining a sweet girl's reputation."

"Not that we would," Edmond said, sounding insulted. "Snowborn's never hurt anyone in her life. Doubt she's even swatted a fly. We wouldn't do something like that."

"Sorry," Draco said, looking around the room. "I keep forgetting that Rosier isn't here anymore. I mostly say these kinds of things for the thick-witted morons in the group. Of which now there are none." He shrugged. "Still. Sometimes people get caught up in the moment. Just wanted to make it clear where I stand."

"Yes, your standing is very clear," Tom said dryly, rolling his eyes. "What time did Snowborn leave last night, or did she stay until morning?"

"I escorted her back to Gryffindor Tower around three, and then went for a walk around the grounds."

"So, if asked, would it be too much of a stretch to say that Hermione found her way to your room after Snowborn left?" Tom scratched his chin, looking thoughtful. "I could claim to have been with her up until then."

"Which looks bad, however you play it," Hermione said amusedly. "It's one thing to have your friends in your quarters," she said. "It's another entirely to bring a girl there. The Hogwarts staff aren't overly concerned with such matters, but I imagined they wouldn't be pleased to know that their Head Boy had violated that rule."

"Slughorn would be thrilled," Draco said with a smirk. Tom's eyes flashed with annoyance. "But Dumbledore would use it to wedge his foot in the door, and would do anything he could to oust you from your position."

"Kindly, of course," Hermione said with some humor. "He'd turn it into a disappointed grandfather routine. Just trying to teach a lesson, or some such rubbish." She waved the notion off with a scoff. "But it would be entirely political."

"I was under the impression that you had some sort of… _relationship…_ with Dumbledore," Tom said smoothly. His voice was silk, dipped in poison.

She shrugged. "I like him," she said genuinely. "Truthfully. He's intelligent, powerful, and he has gone above and beyond in trying to keep the two of us safe and well cared for. He's charismatic, and generally very pleasant company. And he has a delightfully quirky sense of humor." She polished an apple on her sleeve, and then took a bite out of it. Chewing, she smiled. "Doesn't mean he isn't a scheming, manipulative, biased cunt some of the time."

All of the boys, even Avery, jerked visibly at her vulgar words. Gods, she loved doing that. The shock on their faces and the way their jaws slackened never failed to amuse her.

"But you already knew that," she finished up bluntly. "A bunch of Slytherins don't need to tell me that Dumbledore is prejudiced. I see it clearly for myself. Not that I don't, on some level, understand his reasons."

"Reasons for hating a bunch of children?" Tom said sourly.

"Oh, so you're children, now," she said, leaning forward. "Fascinating. I've never before met a child that can cast all three Unforgiveables. Nor do I meet many that spike the punch at parties, or bully Muggleborn first years in the halls, or look on without protest as someone kills a supposed 'friend' in the most excruciating way possible." She shrugged, and leaned back. "My mistake."

"We didn't start out that way," Thoros said sullenly. "We actually _were_ children, once. And he still always looked down his nose."

"Like I said, a biased cunt," she said nonchalantly. "But if I had taught said children's fathers in school, and had seen them grow into prejudiced arseholes that then raised _their_ sons to be prejudiced arseholes, I might be wary, too. It's not fair that he, on some level, even if it's unintentional, comes to expect bad things from Slytherins as soon as they walk through the door of their first class. Not exactly fair to condemn it, either. How many times have you judged someone before giving them a chance?" She cocked her head. "What about little Khalid Amari?" she asked, thinking back to the day she had saved the boy from certain abject humiliation. "You judged him for being a Muggleborn on day one."

"Yes but that's different," Edmond argued, looking confused. "They're…less."

She smiled grimly. "One could easily say the same thing about Slytherins," she said, mocking him. "They're 'less' – because they stoop to picking on children. Stoop to prejudice. The thing is, everyone has their opinions on who is 'less.' For me, it's people who hurt others senselessly. People who crave violence, enjoy rape and torture and murder for the sake of it." She paused. "Once upon a time, that would have included those people who argue on behalf of blood prejudice. Sometimes it still does, when someone spectacularly horrible comes along. But mostly I just pity them." The 'them' that she referred to, of course, were the very same people she was speaking to.

"I used to think that way," Draco interjected, cutting into a piece of sausage and waving it around on his fork in a casual gesture that belied the tone of the conversation. "Was born and raised to it. And no matter what steps you take, you always end up in the same place: war. And once I was thrown into a war, I saw more and more blood being shed." He stopped, chewed his sausage, swallowed. "All blood looks the same. Smells the same, tastes the same. People with pure blood die just as quickly and messily as any Muggle. You see it pooled on the ground, spurting from open wounds, dripping down through cracks in the ceiling. You can't tell a difference. There _is_ no difference."

"Yes, but they're just not as _good_ at – "

"At what?" Malfoy interrupted, looking at Thoros with exasperation. "At _magic?_ Maybe at first, because they come from a totally different world. But look at Khalid Amari now," he said triumphantly. "After, what, three weeks of private tutoring, he's better at DADA and Charms than any other kid his year – and a few second years, too. You should have seen Professor Burke spout off about it to Hermione the other day. He was bloody _thrilled._ It's the most emotive I've ever seen him. There's nothing wrong with Amari's magic. That's plain to see. He just needed a little help getting started. But he's a sharp kid. Sharper than a lot of the inbred morons that like to call themselves 'pure.'" He snorted. "Believe me, there were more than a few of them in my family."

"So you're saying that blood doesn't matter," Mulciber said quietly, looking both offended and intrigued. "At all."

"It does matter," Hermione said. "But generally in the opposite direction. Certain things are hereditary, of course – but that has less to do with 'purity' and more to do with simple genetics. Tom here is the Heir of Slytherin," she said. Most of them looked surprised that she knew. "He's a parseltongue because the blood of Salazar Slytherin runs through his veins. That's relevant. I have a friend who is aura sensitive, like we discussed earlier," she continued, thinking of Luna. "Her mother was the same. Her mother's mother before her, and so on and so forth. Passed down through the female line, shared through blood. Genes. But the purity of someone's blood – the fact that they have a fancy pedigree to go along with their name – has nothing to do with power, or intelligence. In fact, it can lend itself to some serious complications. The majority of squibs are born to those families that call themselves the Sacred Twenty-Eight," she said. "To which most of you belong. No doubt you've seen the occasional hideous cousin, or one that never seems to develop a brain."

"Or worse," Malfoy said, warning in his tone. "The Blacks have always been pretty, smart, magically gifted. But there are more than a few cases of madness within that family." He paused, looked around. "You've all seen it. Don't deny it. Do you ever find yourself wondering who it's going to be this generation?"

"Walburga," Edmond blurted out. He looked more than a little perturbed by the conversation. And a bit dazed, as well.

"Definitely," Thoros confirmed. "Crazy, that one."

"Yes, I hear she's a character," Hermione said with a smirk. She thought of the screeching portrait on the wall at Grimmauld Place, of Sirius screaming obscenities and storming up the stairs after sending a few ineffective hexes in its direction for good measure. "I imagine that if she had more names in her family line than Black, Flint, Crabbe and Bulstrode, she might be better off. And now she's going to marry her cousin."

"Second cousin," Tom corrected. He looked thoughtful.

"Still," she said. "Not a great recipe when it comes to genetics and having healthy children. Sometimes you get lucky," she said, thinking of Sirius and Regulus. On the whole, they'd been the two most mentally stable people to come out of that family tree for centuries. With the exception, perhaps, of their Uncle Alphard.

Who was in school with her right now! It was just so _weird!_

"But usually not," Draco finished.

"But you can't just expect us to – to – " Thoros looked slightly ill.

"I don't expect anything," Hermione said bitterly. "People are constant disappointments. Selfish, small-minded, and in perpetual denial. Give them facts? They'll throw them right back at you. People believe what they need to believe," she said, staring into the eyes of the father of a boy who had once tried to kill her. "When ideology and way of life is threatened, facts are no longer relevant. Opinions and ideals are all that matter."

"But that's…stupid," Edmond said, frowning down at the floor.

"And we have a winner!" Draco crowed, grinning up at the chandelier. "Perhaps there's hope after all."

Hermione cracked her neck, watched in satisfaction as Mulciber flinched at the sound. "So, I came up with a solution."

"To blood prejudice?" Thoros asked, looking a bit lost, like he was still trying to catch up.

"To where I was last night, without getting Tom in trouble," she corrected. She needed to bring the subject back. You had to know when to cut things off before they got out of hand. She'd rather leave them with that last thought, before they had the presence of mind to get angry about it. If you pushed an issue too far, too fast, she'd learned, it would capsize under its own weight.

"Oh?" said Tom, raising an eyebrow and looking unperturbed. If it wasn't for the spark of insecurity she saw in his eyes – the same as when they'd discussed Patronuses in DADA, and when she'd spoken to him in the Slytherin common room about equal worth – she might think he had even gone so far as to tune them out. But she knew better. It would eat at him. "Do enlighten us, O Wise Master of the Universe."

She grinned at his scathing comment. "I like that," she said. "You can just use 'Master' for short. Or better yet, 'Mistress.'" She leered at him mockingly. "And I was just thinking that we claim I've been sick," she said. "That I was throwing up in the girls loo down the hall from your quarters, and you, being the suspicious sort, had to go investigate the noise that you heard while on your way back from the Slytherin common room."

Draco shook his head, cutting her off. "You either need to replace Tom in this scenario, or add someone. The two of you alone together in this story is just asking for Dumbledore to poke at it. Get Avery involved. He's the least suspicious out of your group, and people know, by now, that he and Hermione are friends, and that it's platonic." He looked between Tom and Hermione. "Not to beat a dead horse, and I know how much you both hate to hear it, but there is nothing platonic about the two of you. Any story you tell would be twisted and blown out of proportion and, once again, could be used to tarnish your reputation of responsibility by suggesting that you're abusing your privileges."

Tom looked mildly irritated, but he did not defend against the accusation. Hermione met his eyes briefly, and was terrified by what she saw there. She looked away quickly, felt her cheeks heat. Absently she pulled at the hem of her jumper. She could feel his gaze bore into the side of her face.

"Yes but if Avery were to find her, he'd get in trouble for allegedly being out of bed after hours. He's not a prefect," Tom said. "Nott is."

"Yes but Nott has a terrible reputation for being a cad," Hermione said. "No offense, Thoros dear, but I don't want the speculation."

"None taken," Thoros said, steepling his fingers and smiling roguishly.

"I don't mind getting in trouble for it," Avery said quietly. "I don't get in much trouble to begin with. I've never been written up for anything. I doubt being out of bed one time, and just one floor up, would get me expelled. I probably wouldn't even get detention. Just points taken off."

"I might be able to dispel that potential trouble," Hermione hedged. "I _do_ have influence with Dumbledore. Only a little, and I never push it. But I imagine he could be persuaded to let it go, since it'd be your first offense, and you ended up being able to come to the assistance of a friend. Especially a friend he cares about personally. It'll be something, at least. Besides," she continued, "you're the best for the story. No one would look at you and think 'murderer.' Tom, however, does not fool everybody with his pretty boy routine. And I've made it no secret that I've killed before and would again. If it were Tom and I, someone might be suspicious."

Tom made a noise in his throat that sounded almost like he was offended. "All right," Conan said, his glance flickering over to the Dark Lord that no longer held his allegiance as firmly as before. "Makes sense."

"And how would we explain you not going to the hospital wing, as expected?" Tom asked.

Hermione sneered. "I _hate_ the hospital wing," she said, her nostrils flaring. "And anyone who's spent more than a minute and a half in my presence knows that. I would have asked Conan not to do anything. Just sit with me. Which he would do."

"You'd do the same for me," he said. It was muttered so low she barely heard it.

"Yes," she confirmed softly. "Yes, I would."

Tom cleared his throat. He looked impatient, and she wondered if he was jealous of her burgeoning friendship with the younger boy. "Hopefully, we won't have to explain _anything,_ " he said. "I imagine most of the girls in your dorm would have expected you to sneak in late and then go out running in the morning as you usually do. It wouldn't be entirely unusual. They wouldn't wait up for you, would they?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't think so," she said. "They might have figured I was hanging out with Sabrina, since we were both missing, and left it at that. Iris tends to get suspicious. I'll just tell her I came in after she fell asleep, and if I really need to, I can plant a false memory."

"You can do that?" Edmond said, looking at her with fervor. "With Legilimency, I mean?"

"Barely," Hermione said with a grimace. "It's exceptionally difficult, and it takes a lot of energy. I've only done it a few times. It's a last resort."

"Isn't that what you did with us?" Mulciber asked hesitantly. When she turned her eyes on him he trembled. "In the forest?"

"Not so much," she replied evenly. "In that instance, I took your memory of me, and warped what was left to fill the space behind. For instance, when Tom spoke to you. I merely changed his words. It would be a lot harder to create the speech from nothing. When you plant a false memory, it's just false. Completely. There's nothing there to work with, to build off of – or at least not enough. But if there's already memory there, it's not so hard to warp things just a bit to meet your specifications." She rubbed her hands together. "Now that we've said everything that needs to be said regarding recent events," she said, "I've got some homework that I'd like to do. And then I need to speak to some people." She looked at Tom. "Do you mind if I use your common room to study?" she asked. "I don't think it's wise to go out just yet. Still too much dark energy. I would recommend that the rest of you either stay here as well, if Tom is okay with that, or head back to your dorms and get another couple of hours of sleep before afternoon classes. And during those classes, it'd be prudent for you to sit towards the back of the room."

"It's fine for you to stay, as long as you're quiet," Tom said. "And I have some work of my own to do." He moved away from the fireplace, and looked at Hermione and Draco inscrutably. "At some point, I'd like to speak with the two of you alone."

He left it at that, and then grabbed his cup of tea and a muffin and headed up to his room, closing the door behind him.

Hermione slumped in her seat, sighing. It was interesting, how every time he left a room she felt both bereft and relieved. A terrible, confusing imbalance that messed with her equilibrium.

She looked at Mulciber. "Now might be a good time for me to get into your head to see what I can do to fix it."

"Al…alright," the teen said. "That's fine."

"Afterwards, you'll need to go back to your room and sleep for as long as you can," she advised. "Skip afternoon classes, if you need to." She beckoned him over and moved to sit on the edge of the coffee table, levitating the food tray over to a sideboard next to the door. Mulciber tugged nervously at his jumper as he moved to sit in the space she'd just vacated. Their knees touched, and she readied her mind.

"I might need your help," she said to Draco.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said mildly, flipping through the transfiguration textbook that he'd pulled out of his satchel. Transfiguration was the only subject he'd ever had to work really hard at. It wasn't natural to him. He and Harry were much alike in that way. "Just let me know."

"Conan," she said softly, pressing her wand to Mulciber's sweaty temple, "I'd appreciate a word with you after I'm done, if you don't mind staying."

"I don't mind," he said simply, sitting back in his chair. Draco generously tossed him a seventh year Charms book to keep him occupied, and Avery caught it deftly.

"Alright," she murmured. She was aware of them all watching her. "Remember to keep your walls down. It won't help if you fight me."

"I'll try," he said nervously. He rubbed his palms on the legs of his trousers.

"This might be uncomfortable," she warned. She pressed her vivid wand to his temple. _"Legilimens."_

oooo

* * *

 **I know this was fairly unsatisfying, and I'm sorry. It kind of ran away from me, all the dialogue and all that shit. Rest assured, the next chapter will be up shortly. I** _ **promise**_ **this time. I've already written some of it – half of it used to be in this chapter, but then I decided to break it up before I got over 13,000 words.**

 **A snippet from the next chapter:**

 _"It's a risk," Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes. "An unnecessary one. You're jeopardizing your existence here. Jeopardizing your chance to change things."_

 _She rolled her eyes. "Don't be dramatic."_

 _"I'm not being dramatic," he said impatiently, his voice starting to rise, "I'm being smart! If you would use that impressive brain of yours for the first time since we've landed in this bloody place, you'd see that!"_

 **Once again, thank you for sticking with me. Things have been pretty hectic lately, and there is a lot of stuff that is up in the air, so it's been tough to focus on this story. Sometimes, in all honesty, I feel overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of it. I mean, I know I can be overly verbose, but I just never expected this to get over 200,000 words – now it looks like it might be well over 400,000. How did that happen?**

 **But still. Thanks to all of you. It's nice to feel like I've got people who've got my back, at least behind a computer screen, when day by day I feel so terribly alone. I really appreciate all of the excitement and kindness that y'all show me within this community, and your reviews never fail to lift my spirits.**

 **Love you guys!**

 **Giraffe :)**


	35. Chapter 35

**I really appreciate my new friend "Old Fan" who is a guest reviewer. Very honest and open, and I also appreciate that he/she is reviewing every chapter as he/she goes. I know that is tiresome for many people, but I love it when I continue to get reviews on old chapters. Also, Old Fan, I do know that there is a difference between eidetic and photographic memories; I happened to look it up** _ **after**_ **I wrote most of this story. Whoops. I also read that true photographic memory hasn't actually been proved to exist, and that eidetic memory is only seen for a brief time with children (I know we all love Criminal Minds, but, alas, it isn't up to speed).**

 **So in light of that new information…just pretend. Magic, you know? Crazy stuff. And sometimes I unfortunately cave to the plot armor cliché. It just happens to be convenient to the story.**

 **For those of you who were wondering: I got the job! I officially started training with Frontier Airlines in July, and now I have been on the job for about two months. So when you are flying, or just stuck at an airport, keep in mind that I could be there with you—and you wouldn't even know it! That's wild.**

 **Also, is anybody here from Colorado? I just moved from Raleigh to Denver, and it's a doozy. It's so different and strange. And people talk funny. I feel like I'm in Canada sometimes. I could use some help here, guys! Any advice?**

* * *

oooo

" _Legilimens."_

Hermione fell into Mulciber's flat green eyes and straight through to his brain. He was a fairly sharp young man, she decided. His mind jerked at the intrusion, as if tempted to throw shields up. She sensed his restraint, and began to navigate the dimly lit corridors of his psyche.

Though it was set down into the dark recesses of his brain, the box of pain was not hard to find. She'd put it there, after all. The hard part would be removing it entirely. She'd known going in that it wasn't going to be perfect. She inspected the box, found its tethers, and began to unravel the ropes that bound it to the walls of Mulciber's brain.

She had no sense of time. At one point she thought she heard Draco say, "You okay?" to which she replied, "Yeah, I'm good." But she was deep, _deep_ in Ambrose's psyche, and it was even more difficult than being inside an unconscious brain, if that was possible. She could feel the fatigue start to set in, feel herself get sluggish. She plucked at the ropes more urgently, and finally, just as she thought she might have to pull out and try again later, she managed to pry the box free and rip it out of his mind.

There was blinding pain for a moment—the distinctive, all-over pain of the _Cruciatus._ She squeezed her eyes closed, keeping a firm grip on the box, and dissolved it within her own mind. As it faded into nothing, she slumped, feeling drained.

"I got most of it," she panted, running a hand through her tumultuous hair. She met Ambrose's eyes once more, and this time there were traces of fear and respect, but not the same abject terror that had been there before. "Some of it lingered. It was kind of like trying to pull blowing gum from a shoe. Some of it clung." She patted his cheek, and she liked the way he stiffened—likely more so disgust and discomfort now than horror. "Maybe at some point Tom or one of us can go back in and try to scrub the rest away." She cocked her head. "But then again, it might be good for you to have a reminder," she said with a mean smirk. "That way you'll think twice before sneaking around in other people's business."

She stood, and stretched. Mulciber's eyes were guarded, no longer open as they had been in her presence before. On one hand, she was going to miss the power she'd had over him. He'd just become more of a threat to her. But if she was going to try to worm her way deeper into this little group, she was going to have to deal with Ambrose a different way. She needed him to be able to function around her. And it went a long way towards fortifying her bridge with Riddle.

She was not naturally very patient, but she could be when it mattered. She could be patient when she was brewing an important potion. She could be patient when dealing with difficult people. Patience hurt, but she could manage it just fine. And she was certainly capable of being patient when it came to her mission.

 _Which is what, exactly?_ a quiet voice in her head asked. _Kill Riddle? Don't kill Riddle? Seduce him? Let him seduce you? Instate him as Minister of Magic? Throw him in Azkaban? What precisely is your plan, Hermione?_

Right now, it was simply to figure him out. She'd thought she'd _had_ him all figured out. She had, as was typical, been arrogant with her assumptions. She had thought, since she'd known him in a different time, that she would know how to deal with him. That was the sort of egotism that would get her killed, one of these days.

 _It's not all about you, Hermione,_ Gemma Farley had once snapped at her. _Get over yourself, and please, do us all a favor: let some of the hot air out of that overblown ego of yours._

And Hermione had. Farley had never been her favorite—she was Slytherin to the core, and hadn't learned how to let go of some of the less desirable traits of her former house whilst trying to wage a war. But then again, Hermione suffered from the same problem. Despite some Ravenclaw traits (she had almost been a hatstall during her first sorting; and she _had_ been a hatstall for her second sorting, the second longest in history, she'd discovered) and some Slytherin sensibilities, she was, first and foremost, a Gryffindor. She always had been, and she always would be.

 _At your core, you are the same,_ the Sorting Hat had said to her. _Fire and ice—blazing passion forever warring with cool reason. Brave, willing to fight for what is right and good and pure…but perhaps at times not so right and good and pure yourself. A cruel vindictive streak, even as a child, despite the best of intentions. A thirst for justice that all too often gives way to vengeance. You have an incredible, immense kind of darkness—born of pain and sadness and fear._

 _But you are not darkness yourself,_ it had countered. _You are merely human—despite the not-so-human element to your being (a recent development, I sense)—and the human soul is wrought with complexities and conflict. It is the fate of every human to do battle with oneself. Your battle just happens to have a greater impact on the world at large than most are able to claim. You are one of few extraordinary beings that walk the earth. A burden, yes. But your responsibility nonetheless._

 _And forgive me, my dear girl, but you aren't the kind of person that shirks responsibility. And I think you'd do that best from SLYTHER- No? All right, all right, if you insist. Then let's go with GRYFFINDOR!_

She'd sat and listened to that infernal hat for over eight minutes. When it had started to put her in Slytherin, she had nearly reached up and strangled it.

She turned to Thoros, Edmond, and Dolohov, who were staring at her inscrutably. "Would the three of you be so kind as to escort Ambrose back to his dorm?" she asked.

Well, it wasn't a _request_ —she'd just phrased it like one. But all three of them were sharp enough to pick up on the subtle tone that suggested that it was not up for debate. Thoros was quick to obey, coming over to help haul a weak and sweaty Mulciber up from the couch. Dolohov crossed his arms and sneered, but he grabbed Ambrose's cloak and strolled unhurriedly to the portrait door. Edmond inclined his head to her in silent albeit reluctant respect, and she nodded back, thanking him with her eyes.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, she whirled around, looked up at the closed door of Tom's bedroom, and cast a quick _Muffliato_ around the sitting area. Then she fell back onto the couch, her limbs as unsteady as marmalade on a hot day.

"How long was I in there?" she asked, staring up at the ceiling and putting her feet on Draco's lap.

"About twenty minutes, give or take," Draco answered, not looking up from his Transfiguration textbook.

"Ugh," she groaned, putting a hand on her forehead. "My brain feels like it's about to explode. Conan, be a dear and get me a cup of tea from the tray over there?" she asked sweetly. "Then pull your chair up over here. We need to talk."

He rose obediently, and moved to fix her tea. All the while she did not move, and Draco levitated Conan's chair over to the edge of the couch where she rested her head. The boy came back with a cup of herbal, stirring a bit of honey into it. It would go a long way toward alleviating her headache. She propped herself up against the arm of the sofa, and looked at him searchingly.

"What happened?"

"I assume _Muffliato_ is a muffling spell?" he asked quietly, looking furtively towards the bedroom door.

"An effective one, don't worry," she confirmed. "I can teach it to you later, if you like." Draco was silent, but he shifted in his seat in a way that she knew meant he was uncomfortable with her sharing such a secret. _Muffliato_ wouldn't be invented for another thirty years, after all. Still. Conan Avery was a locked vault. And she'd stolen the key from right under Tom's nose, and he hadn't even noticed.

"I'm sure it could come in handy," he said evenly. "Especially while withholding information from the most dangerous person we know. I didn't tell him everything," he continued, locking eyes with her. "Just the gist of it."

She gestured for him to continue, and he told her about his dreams, about the overwhelming urge to go look behind that column. About how he'd gone straight to Tom after he'd found her wand, and that they'd set out shortly after to find her.

"He thinks they were visions of some kind," Conan said finally. "That I might have seer powers." He cleared his throat, and looked between them. "But you and I know that's not what it was."

"What was it?" she asked patiently, encouragingly. She cocked her head. "Tell me what you think."

"I saw the phoenix," he said slowly. He looked unsure. "Its eyes. And then when I saw it with you in the forest, I made the connection." He paused. "You have some sort of…mind meld?" he hedged.

Hermione sighed. "It's more than that," she said tiredly. "But I think that, since the two of us have connected through _Legilimency,_ and Fawkes is connected with _me,_ that he was able to reach you telepathically. I imagine he might've tried Draco, but the two of us haven't been inside each other's heads in years. And he was…busy," she finished with a smirk, referring to Draco's nighttime activities.

(She was not jealous. She _wasn't._ )

"So Fawkes knew what had happened to you and tapped into my brain for help?" he asked. "Why not tell Dumbledore?"

"Because the Fawkes inside of me does not belong to Dumbledore, and had no way to connect with him," she said quietly. "He's…separate. A different entity, from the physical manifestation that you know. He wouldn't want Dumbledore involved."

"Hermione," Draco warned lowly.

"What?" she asked exasperatedly. "I can't keep all these secrets forever, Draco. And I'd rather tell them to the one person whose brain I know is impenetrable. He's not going to go blab to Tom."

"You said 'inside of you,'" Conan interjected quietly, unbothered by the tension between them. "How? How can Fawkes exist in physical form, but also be a part of you at the same time?"

"Granger," Draco barked, looking at her sharply. "If you open this door, there's no going back."

"No," she murmured. "No, there isn't." She looked into the serious grey eyes of her best and last true friend. "But if we can't figure out this curse that's killing you, then you _will_ die, Draco," she said, miraculously keeping her voice steady. "And I don't want to be alone," she said firmly. "I don't. I can't." She swallowed. "There are only a handful of people that I know here that I trust enough with knowledge like this," she continued, "and only two of that handful know how to keep Tom Riddle and any other unsavory characters out of their heads. One of them is here," she said, patting Conan on the knee familiarly, "and one of them is preparing for the Transfiguration class he has this afternoon."

"Dumbledore," Avery mumbled under his breath. He was looking at her curiously. He didn't seem shocked by the news of Draco's true condition. She wondered if it was because he'd heard it from Riddle, or if he was just smart enough to have figured it out or smooth enough to hide his reaction.

"It's a risk," Draco hissed, narrowing his eyes. "An unnecessary one. You're jeopardizing your existence here. Jeopardizing your chance to change things."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," he said impatiently, his voice starting to rise, "I'm being _smart!_ If you would use that impressive brain of yours for the first time since we've landed in this bloody place, you'd see that!"

She glared at him. "What would you have me do, then?" she asked scathingly. "What's your solution, O Wise One?"

Draco shrugged, and the fight bled out of his eyes only to be replaced with uncertainty and worry. " _Obliviate_ him?" he said, looking at Avery regretfully.

"Absolutely not," she said, lifting her chin. Draco closed his eyes in defeat. He knew when she had made up her mind about something. When the chin was lifted in defiance, there was no going back. "I'm not going to do such a thing to someone I care about."

"You'd be protecting him," Draco said tiredly. He looked to Avery. "The more you know, the bigger the danger."

Avery looked at them both with unreadable blue eyes. His lightly freckled nose twitched. "You aren't from China, are you?"

They both swallowed nervously. She leaned her head back onto the couch armrest and looked up to the ceiling.

"No," she answered. "We're from here."

"You went to Hogwarts," he said slowly. It was not a question.

"Yes," she confirmed quietly.

"You know things about Riddle," he said again, looking determined. "You know him."

"Yes," Hermione said, chewing her lower lip and looking towards the bedroom door.

"And Fawkes lives inside you," he said, pointing down to where the skin of her hands flushed orange for a split second, "but he also lives in Dumbledore's office."

"True," she said. "All of that is true."

"Essentially, you're not from this time," he said evenly. There was not a trace of excitement or disbelief on his face. It was entirely blank. "You came from the future."

Draco sighed in defeat, and dropped his head into his hands with a groan that verified Avery's statement more soundly than any words could have. Hermione tapped her fingers against the fabric of the couch.

"Why?"

Draco's head whipped up, and he snarled at the boy in an uncharacteristic display of temper. "It wasn't exactly intentional, was it?" he said heatedly. "Blasted back here by that bloody bird, doomed to a life of secrets and looking over our shoulder," he said. "Hermione having to watch her tongue every time she says my name in case 'Malfoy' accidentally slips out. It makes me fucking _sick._ "

"Now who's over-sharing?" Hermione asked sullenly under her breath.

Conan did not look at all surprised. He just nodded his head. "I had wondered," he said quietly. "It passed with Agricola—I could overlook it as a weird coincidence. But put you next to Abraxas, and it's a dead give away. I remember him from school before he graduated. You're his son?"

"Grandson," Draco spat out. He looked at Hermione, and she could see the fury in his eyes. She saw a flicker of relief there, too. Secrets were heavy to carry. "We need to discuss this somewhere else," he said lowly. "The common room of the man who would benefit the most from this information is doing his bloody _Charms_ homework upstairs, or some other rubbish," he sneered, waving a hand to indicate his utter disdain.

It was hard to reconcile, sometimes, she knew. It was easier for her—she'd compartmentalized in such a way that Tom Riddle was _not_ the Lord Voldemort she had known in their timeline. Draco thought she was just trying to justify her connection with the future Dark Lord. Maybe he was partially right. But Draco couldn't do the same thing. He couldn't separate this teenager from the monster that still appeared in the shape of any boggart he came across.

"Then we'll wait, and finish up later," Avery said, his voice as smooth and polished as glass. She recognized the spark of curiosity, that greed for knowledge that she knew sat heavy in the chest—something she was extremely familiar with. "I can wait."

"How gracious of you," Malfoy snarked. Hermione jabbed her heel down on his thigh. He lowered his eyes to the floor. The stress was plain to see in every line of his face.

"The two of us have a meeting tonight," Hermione said. "With the two vampires that were at Slughorn's party. Before that, I need to take a walk in the forest," she continued. "I've got to talk to the centaurs."

Draco snorted, and opened his mouth to retort. She cut him off. "They won't hurt me," she said confidently. "I'm apparently part of some prophecy of theirs. But I need to know."

"And before that, we have classes," Avery said.

"I'll tell him," Draco blurted, sounding bitter. "You go have your little meeting in the forest—they'll put an arrow in me as soon as I'm spotted—and I'll tell him everything. _Everything,_ Granger. Now that you've opened this door, there's no going back," he warned. "No point in holding back now."

"I'll leave you my purple bag," she said mildly. "Your pensieve is in the vault. I've got about two hundred memories there: mine, Harry's, and a few others mixed in. They're all labeled."

"Yes, I know," he said shortly. "Some of them are mine."

"Then you shouldn't have too much trouble finding them," she said coolly. "Take him down with you," she continued, jerking her head in Conan's direction. "And tell him about our plans."

" _Your_ plans," he said, standing up and cracking his knuckles. "I'll be dead by Yule, remember?"

She went to open her mouth, and he cut her off. "I need to take a walk. I'll be back in a few minutes." He looked at Avery coolly. "If I don't see you again in private today, meet me in my room at six. The password is 'Pansy.' Don't be late."

She watched him go, and shook her head in a mixture of sorrow and amusement as he strode through the door and closed it very softly behind him. She would have slammed it. Harry certainly would have. Most people would, in a fit of frustration or anger. But not Malfoy. He was far too composed for such a childish display.

It was good to have some things that you could count on, she thought.

"He's not happy about this," Avery said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair.

"No," she confirmed. "He's not. He thinks I'm reckless. Foolish."

"He was a Slytherin." It was not a question.

"Well spotted," she said with a wry grin. "Slytherin to the core, that one. But brave, too. Remarkably brave." She sighed. "It never took much for me to be brave," she said quietly, her voice practically a whisper. "Not really. It was always natural, always _expected—_ I was best friends with the bravest, most important man in the world, and we were raised together in school as Gryffindors. It was easy to just charge in, no matter the consequences. It's still easy," she continued, "despite how long we've been at war. Despite how jaded and angry and fearful we all became. It was just how we did things. Habit." She paused, took a quivering breath. "It's not like that for Draco. Perhaps that's why it's even more impressive. Working undercover for a year—none of us had any _idea—_ and then throwing himself into the midst of a bunch of loud, headstrong Gryffindors with the constant urge to just throw caution to the wind and tear off after the bad guys. That sort of thing drives Malfoy crazy. He likes to have a plan. So do I, actually—but I have a harder time actually sticking to it."

She sat up, and pushed her palms down over her hair. It seemed especially large today. "But anyway," she said. "Don't worry, he's not going to take you down into my extended bag and then kill you and stash your body down there," she said casually. "He's invested, now. He hates me, at the moment, but he's caved. I doubt he'll be excited about it, though, so try not to do anything that he might think is annoying."

"I'll keep that in mind," he said dryly. "Can you teach me that spell while we wait for Riddle to come back down and for Mallery—Malfoy—whatever—to come back?"

She smiled at him, and waved her wand to dispel the charm around them. Immediately the air felt just a bit lighter, a bit fresher. "This was the creation of my old Potions professor," she said, smiling sadly. "The same one who taught me _Occlumency_ , and was responsible for much of my initial training in the more serious Dark Arts —and their defenses. He made up several spells I'm quite fond of. He was very bright, and also very brave. Like Draco," she said, indicating that Snape had been a Slytherin without saying it outright. Tom could choose that very moment to burst through the door—now that the spell was no longer active, they needed to be careful about what they said.

She held up her wand at an angle. "Now. Hold your wand out like this…"

* * *

oooo

"I want to know what you're up to."

Draco rolled his eyes. "You make it sound like we're two mischievous children planning some kind of prank," he drawled, looking at the young Lord Voldemort with thinly veiled impatience. He was ready to get out of here. Tom Riddle made him angry, and his walk earlier that morning hadn't done much to clear his head. Also, the sexual tension in the room was thick enough that he was afraid he wouldn't even be able to make it to the door. And it was disconcerting. He wasn't sure how to process this new facet of Hermione and Riddle's relationship.

Tom stared at him. "Don't try to brush me off," he warned, his eyes narrowing. "What are your plans?"

Hermione looked at Draco askance. He blinked. _Throw him a bone,_ he thought, hoping that she got what he was trying to say. They had learned long ago to communicate wordlessly when the occasion called for it.

"We're just trying to gain influence in the Ministry," Hermione said, her tone of voice indicating that it was no big deal. "There are some issues with the system. We're trying to form connections, so that when the time comes for reformation, we can push it in a particular direction. It'll be a slow process. We're hardly going to go in wands blazing to try to take over or anything. We're not here to wage another war."

His nostrils flared. "And I assume these plans include changing policies regarding women in the workplace?" he asked.

Draco could hear the disdain in his voice. He tried to match it—he channeled Snape. By the way Hermione's eyes danced with amusement, he succeeded. "Among other things."

"Please tell me you don't have a problem with that," Hermione said acerbically. "I mean, honestly, can you imagine me working as a bloody secretary somewhere? Or, worse, being a _housewife?"_ She grimaced.

"No," Tom said slowly, carefully, "but you are the exception to the rule."

"And what about Raven?" Hermione said, narrowing her eyes. "What about Pepper Peabody, and Bertha Higgs, and Zuri Rubright, and a whole host of other women in this school that are bright and powerful and have extraordinary potential?"

His best friend leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees and staring dead into Riddle's eyes. They were dark, fathomless, black as night with the faintest trace of grey-green-blue. "Listen," she said lowly. "We know you're a collector. We know, like Slughorn, that you like to have all the right connections. We're the same way. It pays to know important people, powerful people, rich people, smart people. But surely you realize how much you waste by overlooking half of the population?"

He was silent. Draco imagined that his brain was still trying to catch up, that his thought processes were still sluggish and achy. "I've…started to pay more attention," he said, his voice and face betraying no emotion. "Ever since you've been at Hogwarts, I've started to pay more attention. Still, old habits die hard."

"But when they _do_ die, they are obliterated," Draco said astutely. "As I said, I was a proponent of blood prejudice growing up," he continued. "When that illusion was shattered, it was gone. Dead. Not even a hint of judgment anymore. Not when I had muggleborns watching my back and saving my life and sacrificing themselves," he said. "Not when I saw women—and not just Hermione—beat the snot out of grown men with _and_ without magic. Everything was turned on its head. And I fell hard on my face." He shrugged. "I imagine, you being as intelligent as you are, that it won't take long for you to fall out. I would be surprised if you didn't. As Hermione said, only idiots hang onto ideals and opinions when faced with hard fact."

He could tell that Hermione wanted to laugh. It was a clever game—one that Draco excelled at.

 _You're such a manipulative bastard,_ her eyes seemed to say.

It was interesting—he imagined that Tom knew he was being manipulated, on some level. That he'd picked up on Draco's words, his flattery, followed swiftly by condemnation. But Draco could see the cogs whirring in his mind. And even though Riddle probably knew he was being manipulated, the words _still_ got under his skin.

He knew that they were right. They _knew_ that he knew that they were right. He was not, in fact, an idiot. A prejudiced, greedy, psychopathic git, maybe, but not stupid. Rather, one of the smartest people they had ever known. But Riddle had allowed emotion to cloud his judgment—his experience with his family (or lack thereof) tainting the magnificent, extraordinary mind that they admired and feared and pitied in equal measure.

He didn't think Tom would appreciate them pointing that out, however. So he didn't say anything. Maybe later, when Hermione had wormed her way in closer, she could try to tell him something to that effect.

Later, when he was dead and gone.

"I think we should put our heads together, so to speak," Tom said. He laced his fingers together, his face carefully blank. This was the Tom Riddle that Draco had always pictured in his mind: the cool, calm, dangerous man that gave nothing away. Not the reluctantly emotional teenager still clinging to human weaknesses, and not the terrifying, unstable madman from his past. This was the man that would charismatically gather followers over decades—the man that would recruit Draco's own father, among many others. People who would be seduced by the prospect of a new world order: one in which purebloods (and select halfbloods that were worthy) sat at the top and ruled wizardkind. One that would rapidly deteriorate into violence and elimination.

Draco remembered reading about a muggle named Hitler, once. He'd been so fascinated with the story that he'd asked Hermione more about it. She'd proceeded to tell him more, and handed him multiple history books on the subject. And with each passing text, he'd become more and more disturbed.

The entire premise of the Holocaust had started very similarly to Tom Riddle's goals. It had begun with sanctions on the Jews, with the idea that Jews were lesser beings, responsible for all the ails that plagued Germany as a result of the first World War; that they were a plight on Europe's population, something to be heavily policed and controlled and limited. Ideas of sterilization were thrown into the mix—that the current generation of Jews should be the _last_ generation, and to just let them die out over time. Many were forced into labor camps to support the rapidly expanding Nazi party and their war against the Allies. Some were evacuated to outside countries, foisted onto other governments as if they were some great burden.

Then "evacuation" took on a new meaning; it started to look more like "extermination." It began with large-scale shootings in various villages across Nazi-occupied Europe, and bodies dumped into mass graves. Then trucks that were sealed with a couple dozen people inside, their carbon monoxide fumes simply diverted back into the truck. Then on a larger scale: buildings were raised, camps erected around them, people stripped and ushered into a huge "shower" that ended with pink bodies being hauled out and burned in industrial-grade crematoriums.

How had it gotten to that point? How had the original notion of "these people are inferior" been turned into "these people need to be completely wiped from the face of the earth?"

It was amazing, how quickly a terrible idea built on prejudice could evolve into something so much more monstrous. How easily a population originally intended to simply be "second class citizens," ruled over by the "superior" race, could turn into a group of people that was practically subhuman, not even worthy of living.

And wasn't that exactly what had happened in the wizarding world in their time? Wasn't that exactly what had happened under Lord Voldemort's reign? Wasn't that exactly what they were all trying to prevent now in this timeline, with Grindelwald?

Grindelwald claimed he wanted to rule benevolently over Muggles. But how quickly would that benevolence turn into horrifying acts of atrocity? How quickly would the movement pick up steam and end with muggles being rounded up and slaughtered with quick _Avada Kedavras?_ How easy would it be to incinerate their lifeless bodies until nothing but ash remained? How much time would it take before muggleborns were lumped in with their families—no longer seen as second to purebloods and halfbloods, but as undeserving of life as their parents?

The prospect of that reality was exactly why he'd spent the last six years of his life _fighting._

Lucius would have called Draco soft. Draco called it having a conscience.

"And what about blood prejudice?" Hermione asked in response to Riddle's suggestion. Her eyes were cool, her face like stone. "Is that something that you'd negotiate with us on in the future?"

"Negotiation is always an option," Tom said silkily. "I've opened my mind to alternatives. However," he said, reaching forward to pour himself a cup of Earl Grey, "keep in mind that money and influence are needed to make changes in government. And in the current political climate, that means purebloods. The Sacred Twenty-Eight, to be exact."

"Influence will be an uphill battle, yes," Draco said. "Why do you think Hermione has been working so hard to make inroads amongst some of the students here? You've limited yourself in your endeavors, Riddle. You've focused within your own house—and, as we just brought up moments ago, you've overlooked the female population. It's true: patriarchs don't listen as much to daughters as they do to sons, especially their firstborns. But mothers listen to daughters, and you'd be a fool to think that men don't listen to their wives."

"Happy wife, happy life," Hermione murmured into her coffee with a smirk. "Plus, there are certain families that _only_ have daughters," she continued. "Primrose Selwyn, for example. Now, her father has a brother, who has a son to continue the family name; but Leonard Selwyn only has Primrose, and he dotes on her. Violet Greengrass has a brother who's a year her senior, but he's not very bright, and their father knows it. He doesn't have a great amount of regard for women, and wouldn't think twice about marrying either of his daughters off to the most advantageous suitors, but Violet has his ear nonetheless because she's undoubtedly his most capable child, and isn't prone to embarrassing him like her two idiotic siblings. And Raven, though she despises her father, is very close to her mother, who I hear is a formidable woman." She broke a piece off of a croissant, fondled it idly before popping it in her mouth. "Your little posse of Slytherins is painfully small, and their families only have part of the market cornered, so to speak."

"The Blacks and the Malfoys are the most powerful families within the Sacred Twenty-Eight—within the Ministry, period," Draco said. "Abraxas graduated when you were a second year – you don't have standing with him, and his father isn't willing to commit to much of anything. And none of the Black children suit your purposes. Alphard is soft. Cygnus is arrogant, and shortsighted. Orion has potential, but he's young yet, and difficult to read. Walburga is a woman, and has no desire to break the mold; and is more than a little unstable. Lucretia is besotted with Ignatius Prewett, and he hasn't got the makings of a politician. Pollux Black and Agricola Malfoy are interested in you based on your abilities and charisma. They think they can collect you, groom you to suit their purposes—all the while unaware that you are collecting them."

Riddle's mouth curved into a smile. "Very astute, Mister Mallery."

"And as to money," Draco continued, meeting the other man's dark stare, "that's not an issue. If the three of us—and then the two of you, after I'm gone—can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement and put some sort of plan into implementation, then you'll have our backing," he said. "We've got enough money between the two of us to challenge most of the people that might be a problem; not to mention the potential help of some of the friends we've made here—rich pureblooded children often have their own Gringotts accounts." He spoke from personal experience. "Now, if Black and Malfoy put their heads together, as they're known to do, then we won't be able to 'out-money' them, so to speak."

"But split them up…" Hermione suggested with a grin. "Divide and conquer. Agricola has already done half the job for us. He's automatically distanced himself from Black, simply by cooperating with Grindelwald behind Pollux's back. Even if Pollux doesn't know about it— _yet—_ it will hang over Malfoy's head and he will automatically feel uncomfortable getting too close to Black. Especially once he finds out that nothing went according to plan last night, and I'm still very much a thorn in his side. He doesn't know me well enough to anticipate whether or not I'll blab to Pollux about what happened. I have no intention of doing so—at least, not yet—but Malfoy doesn't know that. The suspense will make him sweat."

"This is assuming, of course, that Malfoy is indeed the person that Grindelwald's agent was speaking of so cryptically last night," Riddle said, cocking his head. "We're just guessing."

"I'm keeping an open mind," Hermione said. "I'm not ruling out others. But I've learned to trust my instincts. And my gut says it's him. Your friends were inclined to agree with me, as you'll recall."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, as well," Tom said, bowing his head in acquiescence. "I'm just playing devil's advocate." He paused. "You've really thought this through."

"Not in great detail," Draco said, rubbing his forehead. It was starting to ache more insistently. "We're still in the information gathering stage. We don't know precisely what needs doing, or how to do it. Keep in mind that we haven't been in England since childhood. We're still getting acquainted."

"You certainly work fast," the young Dark Lord said. "You haven't even been here two months."

"It doesn't take long to make an impression," Hermione said. "Or to grease hands for information. Money talks."

"Should I even bother asking _how_ you got said money?" Tom asked. "Or how much there is?"

"Nope," she replied, popping her P. She left it at that.

"We all need rest," Draco interjected. "Dark Magic can take a toll." He raised an eyebrow at the teenage Lord Voldemort. "No offense, but you aren't really… _yourself…_ this morning."

Tom's eyelid twitched. "I'm fine, thank you."

Draco stood, grabbed his cane. "No," he denied easily, "but you will be." He patted Hermione's hair fondly. "I'll see you later in classes. I need a nap." He glanced at Tom, and his nostrils flared before he looked back at his friend. "I don't think I need to tell you to stay here until you're forced to go to class? Wouldn't do to bump into Dumbledore in the hall while you still reek of Dark Magic." He wrinkled his nose. "You might want to take another shower, just for good measure."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Mum."

He snorted. "Bookworm."

"Ferret."

Smirking, he walked to the portrait hole. Then, against his better judgment, he left the woman he loved alone with the man he feared most in the world.

* * *

oooo

"You are a study in contradictions."

Hermione calmly sipped her tea from across the room, staring at him with dark eyes. She was, as always, crawling under his skin to wreak havoc. Was it intentional, he wondered? He didn't know. He knew she _liked_ to get under his skin, but did she know just how much she actually succeeded?

"I am considered to be fairly complex, yes," she said back. "This isn't news to you."

"Then why does it always surprise me?" he asked, feeling irritable. Irritable because his control was so precarious around her—mentally and physically.

"Because you _know_ it, but you don't _comprehend_ it," she replied easily. She put her empty teacup down on the coffee table. "What is it about me that is confusing you this time?"

He felt his irritation grow. Annoying, arrogant woman. She was the only person who had ever managed to make him feel small.

Was that why he wanted her? Because she offered him a new perspective? Because she challenged him?

"I cannot understand your connection to some of my friends," he said reluctantly. His mind was sluggish, his psyche trapped in sticky mud. Damn curse. Gods, he wanted so badly to learn it. "You… _care…_ for some of them. Avery, Thoros, even Edmond." He looked searchingly at her. "Why?"

"They're each special, relatively pleasant beings that have all been kind to me," she said. "I generally make a habit of caring for those I consider friends."

"So simple," he murmured, almost to himself. He looked down at his feet, then back up. "You once said that we were friends."

She cocked her head. "If the question is 'Do you care for me?' then the answer is yes, in a fashion," she said, the hint of a smirk playing around her lips. "Let's not beat around the bush, here."

She leaned forward in the casual pose that any man might adopt, with her arms draped across her knees, her wrists crossed, her torso leaning forward; as a woman, it made her seem athletic, tough. She was both of those, he supposed.

"I care, in general, about people," she said earnestly. She squinted at him, as if trying to figure something out. "About animals, too. I try to protect them, comfort them, help them. It's just in my nature. And while you're about as emotive as a plank of wood, I still feel a measure of concern for you on a daily basis."

"Why?" he asked, frowning. He felt both flattered and deeply uncomfortable. "I can take care of myself."

"Most people can," she countered. "Do parents not still worry about their children, even when those children are functioning adults with their own families?" The smirk on her face grew mean. "Perhaps that isn't a great example." His nostrils flared, and he saw the triumph in her eyes. "It's hard to explain empathy to someone who doesn't have any. Like trying to describe the color blue to a blind person." She rubbed her lips together, and his eyes followed the movement of their own volition. "Last night, why did you come after me in the forest? Why save me?"

"You have use to me," he said automatically. "And you interest me."

"And therefore you were concerned about my well-being, and you set off to find me," she said with a nod. "For personal gain." She paused. He marveled that she did not seem the least bit offended; everything about this enigmatic girl was refreshing. "Imagine not having that sense of personal gain. Not doing it for selfish reasons."

He looked at her in confusion. "What would be the point?"

Hermione gave him a soft smile. He did not miss the condescension in it, or the pity. It made him bristle with resentment.

"That is exactly the point I'm trying to make," she said. "There is something you lack. And I can't describe the color blue to someone who can't see it. I can't make you see _why_ I care, because you don't have the basic comprehension of empathy for others."

He glared at her. There it was again: _something you lack. Can't see it._ Not _won't_ – but _can't._

A disability.

"Love is a weakness," he said with certainty. "I've seen that. I _know_ it."

"It can be," she said, frowning. "But it can also be a strength." She leaned back and crossed her legs. He saw the faintest hint of a garter beneath her skirt. Beneath his irritation, lust stirred. "What fuels the killing curse?" she inquired.

"Anger, and hate," he answered, impatient. "Or necessity."

"You can't have truly _hated_ if you haven't _loved_ ," she said. "My hate of people—my anger—is in direct opposition to love."

"As in there can't be light without darkness?" Tom suggested, fascinated.

"That's the general idea, yes," Hermione continued. "I'm not saying you can't be angry, or despise someone, without love there to counter. But _true_ hate—the kind that blackens your heart entirely—can't exist without something there to blacken. You thought I was especially good at the _Cruciatus_ when I tortured Rosier because I had training—because I learned it from someone skilled in the art. Bellatrix was indeed good at the torture curse—she had the kind of hate that stems from prejudice that turns to madness. But I imagine," she continued softly, her eyes like flint, "that if she were to suffer under _my_ wand, it would be infinitely more painful for her." She ran her small, scarred hands over her special wand. "Because she killed my husband. And a lot of other people I loved. And therefore my hate for her is unparalleled." She shrugged, and it did nothing to lighten the weight of her sinister statement. "As for Rosier, you know what he tried to do to me that night; he also happens to resemble someone from my past that tried to do the very same thing. Not a particularly beneficial likeness for him, I'm afraid. But anyway," she finished, sucking in a breath. "Because you can't love, Tom Riddle, your _Cruciatus_ curse will never be as strong as mine." She paused. "'Light is meaningful only in relation to darkness, and truth presupposes error. It is these mingled opposites which people our life, which make it pungent, intoxicating. We only exist in terms of this conflict, in the zone where black and white clash.'"

"Louis Aragon," Tom murmured, before he could stop himself.

"And you say Muggles have no merit," she said with a triumphant smirk.

He bristled. Tried hard not to. "I find…that certain, select Muggles—generally artists—have some merit." He shrugged. He did not like it when she started to disrupt his way of thinking. "After all, art is art."

"This is true," she said. "I'm often more fascinated by Muggle art than I am by wizarding art. Paintings and photographs in particular. Somehow, certain artists manage to capture emotion and movement better than wizarding art, which _actually_ moves. There's far more talent in that. Also, they appreciate life more, I think," she continued musingly. "They have less time here on earth to accomplish things, to enjoy things. There's a sort of motivation there that I find wizards often lack." She stretched, raising her arms overhead with a yawn. "May I use your washroom again?" she asked.

The abrupt change of subject threw him off. "You may." He watched her carefully as she stood.

"Afterward, I think I'll go for a walk around the grounds before classes start," she said casually. "You're welcome to join me. It might be good to air ourselves out, so to speak. We'll just have to try to avoid other people."

He followed her as she started up the stairs. "In the meantime, I have more questions." He tried not to let his eyes linger too long on the back of her thighs, a strip of tantalizing flesh that flirted with the shadows created by her pleated skirt.

"I know you do," she said with a sigh. "Ask away. There may be a few that I refuse to answer, but you can certainly try."

He rolled his eyes as they stepped into his bedroom. "I still haven't quite figured out this inhuman component. Although I do enjoy a challenge, in this case, Hermione, I just want to _know."_

"I'm hesitant to talk about it," she replied. Her voice was gentle, tired—and, surprisingly, very sincere. "The truth is, Riddle," she continued, placing a hand on his chest and looking up into his eyes, "I don't trust you with the knowledge. I don't trust that you won't try to use me."

His curiosity was gnawing a hole in his stomach. "Let's be blunt. You are well aware that I'm _already_ using you. Or at least _trying_ to. You don't make it easy."

"There are leaders and followers in this world," she countered. She turned away from him, and pulled her grey jumper over her head in a way that he was sure was not intentionally meant to be seductive, yet still managed to make him want her even more. "Neither of them more important than the other. You and I, Tom—we're leaders." She kicked off her shoes. "We cannot be owned, cannot be controlled. Your friends, while all intelligent and capable, are followers. They are content to serve beneath you. But people like us, Tom—we will never serve another human being. You trying to use me and own me is as productive as me trying to use and own _you._ Read: not very."

She continued to speak as she began to unbutton her shirt. Feeling impatient, but respecting her right to speak, he reached out and pushed her hands away to do the menial task himself. She did not object, merely let her hands rest at her sides. He wrestled his lust for her in favor of paying close attention to what she was saying.

"The truth of my humanity would send your greed for me careening down the path at a reckless and dangerous pace," she said tiredly. "It's something special, something different—something that would turn me into a captive at the Ministry, studied and experimented on for years to come. That is, if you didn't get to me first." She shuddered as he pushed the uniform shirt from her shoulders; held it there for a moment, trapping her arms. She did not struggle against it. "Kept in a cell, as a trophy, as a tool."

"I wouldn't," he said mildly, sliding the white shirt fully down her arms with a caress of sun kissed skin. "I wouldn't keep you in a cell. I've come to terms with my lack of ownership of you. You would be respected as an equal…of sorts. I won't deny that I might look at you as a trophy or a tool, but you would be _free."_ Absently, he leant down to brush his lips over her bare shoulder; felt her quiver in response. "Tell me," he murmured against her skin.

"I will," she answered as his hands went to the closure of her skirt. The fabric fell to the floor, pooling around her feet. "Just not today."

He groaned in frustration. "One of these days, Hermione, I'm going to strangle you."

She hummed. Her face became level with his groin as she unsnapped her garters and bent to roll her stockings down. "No, you won't," she said with a snort. "That's too common for you. You'd be cleverer about it. You would never use your bare hands to kill someone. It's too…Muggle."

Her head was less than two feet from his cock, which was rapidly hardening as more and more of her flesh went on display. By the slight smirk on her face, she was aware of it. Turning from him, she strode into the bathroom and turned on the taps to the bath. She got it to a temperature she liked, and then added lavender scented bubbles that poured from a faucet on the right.

His eyes almost rolled back into his head when she reached around to unclasp her bra, letting the straps slip down her arms. He struggled for self-control as she flicked her knickers from her hips, exposing her backside to him as if she hadn't a care in the world.

His cock reared up to its full potential when her torso twisted toward him, and she raised her hands to wrestle her unruly mane of hair into a pile atop her head, securing it with a clever bit of wandless magic. He swallowed, his eyes traveling from her shapely legs up to her muscled bottom and up further to the profile of the one pert breast he could see, its nipple pebbly in the cool air.

He longed to touch it. He longed to touch _her:_ anywhere, everywhere, all the time. He would even settle for running a single finger over one of her dainty ankles.

Instead, he leaned against the doorjamb and struggled to maintain an unaffected expression.

"You have incredible self-control," she drawled, meeting his eyes. She finally stepped up to the edge of the bath, and then submerged herself with a sigh. She waded over to the far side and turned to face him, revealing her breasts to him for a fraction of a second before sinking down until only the very top of her chest was exposed. She closed her eyes, and leaned back against the wall of the tub. "Then again, I would expect nothing less from you."

He gritted his teeth, and let his eyes rove over whatever skin showed above the bubbles. "Then you should know that I'm clinging very tenuously to that self-control." He glared at her. Stupid, bewitching woman. "And that it would take me very little time to divest myself of all clothing if you were to issue an invitation."

A very female smile curved on her face. "I'm flattered, Mister Riddle," she said, a laugh in her voice. She cracked an eye open to look at him. "But why would you need an invitation?" she asked slyly. "After all, it is _your_ bath. I'm merely an invited guest." She shrugged. "You should do as you please."

He stiffened at the words. She hadn't said _"You_ **can** _do as you please"—_ she'd used the word _"should."_

"Should I?" he asked quietly, stepping out of his shoes and moving further into the room. His eyes never left the beguiling woman in his tub.

She hummed in acquiescence. Watching him with lazy, predatory eyes, she let her eyes peruse his form, watched large and capable hands come up to flip open his shirt buttons and peel it back from his torso. He was glad they didn't shake; not from nervousness—he had nothing to be nervous about, on his end—but from how much he fucking _wanted her._

He stripped out of his trousers and vanished his socks with a flick of his fingers. Finally, without shame, he pushed his pants down from his hips, and enjoyed the way her lips parted and how her eyes went dark with hunger.

She pushed away from the far wall and came to fold her arms on the rim of the tub. The position put her at eye-level with his straining cock. Stepping forward, desire making his vision hazy, he slid his fingers back into the hair behind her temple. Tempted, she leaned forward and licked his hipbone.

He sighed in exasperation, fit to explode. "Don't tease," he said sharply. "You've been teasing me now for a month and a half. It's driving me spare."

She grinned mischievously up at him, her eyes full of womanly secrets. "It was never my intention to frustrate you, Tom," she said coyly. He hissed when she reached up with her wet hand and danced her fingers down his cock before circling them around the base.

"Liar," he shot out, his fingers tightening in her hair.

She gave him a mean smile, and then inclined her head and ran the flat of her tongue along the underside of his cock.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—_

Someone knocked on the portrait door.

oooo

* * *

 **Ooh! Poor timing. Who's at the door, do you think?**

 **Snippet from the next chapter:**

" _Who are you?" he snarled into her face. Fear gripped her heart in its icy fist as she saw the faintest trace of red slide into those deep blue eyes. For they were blue, she confirmed. Now that she was so close, and as the sunlight bled through the foliage, she could see clearly. The darkest, greyest blue that nature had been able to conjure._

 **I'm sorry I haven't been consistent lately. This new job takes up a lot of time and energy, and I just haven't had the inspiration to write like I used to. Hopefully it will come back, and I'll be more regular with updates. Hopefully.**

 **Either way, whether it takes me a week or a year, I won't cease to keep writing for this story. Like I've said before, nothing is ever abandoned.**

 **Thanks for your continued support. Reviews really do help! As always, I love you guys.**

 **xoxo**

 **Giraffe :)**


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